


in death’s dream kingdom

by therestlessbrook



Series: a world unending [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Eventual Romance, F/M, Grief/Mourning, It’s a post-apocalyptic road trip, Mutual Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Road Trips, Smut, Thanos Does the Thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-10-22 16:43:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 100,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17666285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: Everyone is wrong about how the world ends—it isn’t with a bang or a whimper. Not with fire or ice.It ends in ash.(Or, Thanos snaps his fingers, and Frank and Karen survive in the aftermath.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Dans le royaume rêvé de la mort](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18293315) by [traitor_for_hire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/traitor_for_hire/pseuds/traitor_for_hire)



> I am a masochist. I wrote the thing. I’m sorry. Comments are love.

Everyone is wrong about how the world ends—it isn’t with a bang or a whimper. Not with fire or ice.

It ends in ash.

Frank wakes on a Wednesday to the sound of his phone blaring an alarm. He scrubs his fingers across his eyes, jaw cracking wide with a yawn. His apartment is small but clean, and for once, there aren’t bullet holes riddling the walls. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, goes to the kitchenette and his coffee maker. Once it’s burbling away, he picks up his phone again.

There’s an alert for a news article—written by one Karen Page. This time, it’s about corrupt TSA officials helping traffickers. He shakes his head, half-proud and half-worried. She’s going to get herself in trouble or win some kind of award. 

His thumb slides across the screen, over her name.

He hasn’t seen her since the elevator. Since Lewis and that clusterfuck with the homemade bombs. At first, he stayed away to keep her out of the line of fire. Then, it was so he could sort out his new life. And now—now it’s been three months and he hasn’t contacted her.

Maybe he should.

He knows he won’t.

Because she deserves better. She deserves a real life, and he can barely manage his own.

He pockets his phone. He has to get to work—he’s got another job in construction and while it’s boring, it also pays the bills. He hasn’t touched the money David gave him. It doesn’t feel right, somehow. He puts his coffee in a thermos, packs a half-assed attempt at a sandwich, and walks out of his apartment.

* * *

This is how the world ends.

It ends with Frank Castle walking along a city block when a SUV veers into his path.

He manages to get out of the way—mostly. He rolls along the sidewalk, gravel cutting into his arms, and then he’s on his feet, instincts driving him to take cover, to figure out if this was an assassination attempt or—

There’s no one in the driver seat. Frank steps closer, heartbeat throbbing in his ribcage, but it’s empty. The inside of the car is strangely dirty, crusted with soot.

Something _crashes_ ; Frank flinches and whirls around—another car has slammed into the side of a delivery truck. There are screams and shouts, and—

An explosion a few blocks away. 

There’s a young woman a few feet from him; she looks paralyzed by the sudden chaos, and Frank reaches for her. “Ma’am, come on. You shouldn’t be on the street.”

Something’s wrong. Something’s gone terribly wrong, and New York is a battlefield again. 

The woman nods jerkily. She retreats toward an alley, but before she can reach the safety of its walls—

He watches it happen.

Her edges begin to crumble into darkness and dust.

Frank Castle has seen death before—he has watched men be blown apart, watched bullets tear into exposed flesh, seen throats cut and bellies ruptured. He has always thought that nothing of violence could surprise him anymore: he has been steeped in so much blood that it barely bothers him anymore.

But he has never seen someone simply _cease to be_.

The woman falls forward, hands reaching out as if to catch herself on the sidewalk. But she collapses in on herself, and ash scatters along the concrete.

Fora few moments, Frank can only stand there. Then he takes several steps back. This—this doesn’t make sense. It simply doesn’t.

But Frank Castle isn’t a philosopher—he isn’t one to contemplate what should and shouldn’t be. When this is over, if he’s still alive, he’ll try to make sense of everything. But for now, he has to _survive_. And if this is some kind of bio-terrorism, then he needs to stay away from whatever killed that woman.

He whirls around; there are others in the street, screaming. A young man—barely older than twelve—is clutching at his mother. His hands go through her, and then she’s gone. The boy looks around, sobbing, before he vanishes, too.

Frank darts into the alleyway, out of the path of careening cars and screaming pedestrians. Whatever this is, it isn’t natural. It’s an attack, but he can’t see any visible weapons. Even if he _could_ see who is attacking, he’s not armed. He snarls at himself for that. His guns are all back in his apartment, but they may as well be in another country.

There are other noises—tearing metal and breaking glass and someone shouting a name over and over again.

His shaking fingers find his phone and he pulls it from his pocket. One name comes to mind. 

_Karen._

His phone is cracked, the glass sharp against his fingertips. He snarls a curse, then whirls in place. He isn’t close to her apartment—it’s at least a mile away, and if there’s anything he knows about battlefields, it’s that chaos widens distances. There’s no guarantee he can get there in time, if he can get there at all.

There’s another crash, one that reverberates through the soles of his feet. A window cracks behind him.

The city is falling apart, and he can’t see any way to fight it.

But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

Frank keeps low to the ground and begins to run.

* * *

It takes an hour to reach Karen’s apartment building.

Everything is a fucking mess. There are car crashes everywhere—and he’s pretty sure he saw a plane fall out of the sky. Smoke curls up through the sewers, and there is screams, cries, people crowding together or running apart. It’s as chaotic as any battlefield he’s ever been on, but far worse because this is home. 

His mind races, cataloging all the things it could be: terrorist attack is first on the list, but he has yet to see a single attacker. Something biological—which would explain those who have crumbled to ash. But if it is biological, then why wasn’t he affected? He stood next to that woman just before she died; surely, he should have been affected, too.

Or maybe he was. Maybe it’s only a matter of time until he crumbles, too. No, he can’t think like that. 

His jaw is so tense that he can feel his teeth creak. He bolts into the apartment building, up the stairs, and down the hallway.

Then he’s in front of her door. His fist slams into the wood several times, but there’s no answer. It’s locked. 

The fear that he’s been holding back swells up to meet him. Whatever is happening, whatever fucked up shit has gone down, he can’t lose Karen Page to it.

He kicks her door in. The chain catches, but another slam of his shoulder against the door wrenches its last defense away. Drywall scatters along the floor.

A bullet slams into the wall behind him.

Frank feels its passing like a whisper. Then the world goes quiet and he hears, as if through thick water, “Frank?”

Her hair is pulled back and she’s wearing her clothing from work. She is paler than he’s ever seen, and there’s ash in her hair.

Then he’s striding into the apartment, and he pulls her to him. The gun is still in her hand, hanging loosely at her side, but nothing else matters but the solidity of her. The shape of her against him, the expanse of muscle and bone. She is shaking and so is he—but they’re here. He holds her tight, probably too tight, but she doesn’t protest. He’s half-afraid she’ll vanish in his arms, slip through his fingers like so much smoke.

“What’s happening?” she whispers against his shoulder.

“Don’t know.” And at this very moment, he doesn’t care. Because _whys_ don’t matter—all he can think about is reacting. He pulls away, glances at her windows. Still intact, which is more than he can say for the door. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

It’s gratifying how easily she slips into ‘we.’

“Not here,” he says. “This place is too vulnerable. Whatever’s going on—it doesn’t matter. We need to find a safe place and hole up.”

“What?” Her brows draw tight, and she looks as if she wants to protest.

“Immediate aftermath of disasters,” he says, “is when most of the deaths happen. People are going to panic—they’re already panicking, and that’s going to be just as dangerous as whatever’s going on. Listen, I know you’re gonna call your friends—so do it. You’ve got five minutes. Then we gather what supplies we can, and then we get gone.”

She hesitates, lips moving silently. Her gaze tracks over him, and then her shaking eases. She has never been the kind of person to follow orders, but this situation is far removed from the ordinary. “I’ve been calling Foggy,” she says, “but he’s not picking up.”

Frank knows he should be packing things—going to the cupboards and seizing upon any stable foods he can find, gathering up essentials like knives and batteries, and going for that first aid kit he knows Karen keeps beneath the bathroom sink—but he can’t bring himself to walk away. His eyes are fixed on her, and he fears the moment he looks elsewhere, she’ll collapse into ash. So he watches as she picks up her phone and tries it again. Her gun sits on the counter; out of habit, Frank picks up and checks the magazine.

“—Goddamn it, Foggy, pick up,” Karen snarls, then hangs up. “Fuck.”

“Still no answer?” 

A shake of her head. “I tried Marci, too. Shit.” She runs her hands through her hair. “I don’t have Matt’s number.”

He wracks his brain for anyone else she might care for. “Your boss?” he asks.

When her eyes meet his, they are haunted. Her fingers pluck at her white blouse, at the ash stains. “He—he didn’t—” Her voice breaks and she looks away.

 _“_ Sorry,” he says. Because there’s nothing else he can do.

Karen leans on the counter, then takes a deep breath. “You—you said we should leave?”

“Yes.” He glances about the kitchen. “You have a backpack?”

“Not really.”

“Suitcase?”

“Yeah.”

“Essentials,” he says. “Medications, ID, any family heirlooms you absolutely can’t live without.”

She blinks several times, then nods. This is one thing he admires about her—she knows how to take a blow, and then keep going.

He finds trash bags beneath the sink and begins filling one: canned goods, any painkillers he can find, soap, and a first aid kit. When Karen emerges from the bedroom, she’s changed out of her pencil skirt and into jeans and a hoodie. It’s the most casual outfit he’s ever seen her in. She has a roller bag in one hand and a tote hanging from her shoulder. “Ready?” he says.

She looks at him. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her face scrubbed clean of make-up. She has the look of someone who is frightened to her core, but there’s steel in her eyes. “No. You?”

“No,” he admits. He picks up her gun, flicks off the safety, and turns toward the broken door.

“Where are we going?”

There is only one place in the city he can think of—one location that might hold out against everything.

“I know a place,” he says.

* * *

David’s bunker is still a little trashed. Frank’s fault—he knows. The bodies were removed, but the bloodstains remain.

But still—it’s the safest place he knows. One point of entry, no windows, security still in place, and it’s underground. A bomb could go off and this place would probably protect them from the fallout. “Cozy,” says Karen. It sounds like an attempt at humor, but her voice falls flat in the echoing space. “What is this? Fallout shelter from the sixties?”

“Where David Lieberman and I lived for a few weeks,” he replies, setting their things down on the table. It’s the space that always served them for a living room—a couch and coffee table, both pilfered from someone’s dumpster. Or maybe a sidewalk. “Well, actually David lived here for a year. When he was hiding out.”

“Micro’s lair,” she says, eyes wandering. “You think it’s safe here?”

“Yeah.”

She watches him. “You think he might come here.”

Of course she would pick up on that. “Yeah,” he says again, “I—I mean, if he’s okay. If he and Sarah and the kids got out, he might bring them here. If not—” His voice stutters out.

Understanding fills her face. She takes a step forward, and before he can really grasp what’s happening, she’s put her arms around him again. She’s warm against him—warm and breathing and _alive_. This time, there’s less frantic energy to the embrace and more reassurance. They’re both here, and he’s going to make sure it stays that way. “Might as well see if you can call anyone else. I’m going to work on reinforcing the locks.”

They spend the rest of the day making the bunker slightly less of a hellscape. Karen finds a mop and goes to work on the brown stains—and she doesn’t ask about them. Frank inventories their supplies, makes sure that the door is properly secured, and then turns on all the computers. The screens boot up, and then Karen’s at his side, drawing in a sharp breath.

The screens show a world in turmoil.

News stations broadcast emergency messages. Footage from street cameras show people running, houses on fire, cars locked in standstill as people try to flee. Security cameras outside of government offices depict empty buildings—their occupants rushed to safety.

Frank doesn’t know how to find new feeds—or else he’d try to find David’s home. The codes are a mystery to him, and David never bothered to share the passwords.

Karen stands beside him, fingers across her mouth, taking it all in.

Then she begins rummaging about the desk. “What are you looking for?” he asks.

“Paper. A pen—something to write with.”

He reaches into the second drawer. He remembers David using a notepad—and sure enough, it’s still there. “This work?”

“Perfect.” She flips to a fresh sheet and begins to write. “I’m assuming these cameras are recording, but we should have a physical copy, too. Something a little more accessible than just tapes. If I can write down what we know, what we’ve seen…”

He doesn’t know how it’ll help. All Frank sees is a world crumbling all around him—but then again, perhaps this is her way of dealing with it. He’ll load guns and brace the doors; she’ll watch and write. And if humanity does survive this, maybe they’ll have need of her observations.

He leaves her to it.

* * *

 

They don’t sleep that first night.

Frank is too keyed up; he makes coffee and prowls the perimeter. Karen is still writing, her pen flashing across yellow paper. Evening comes on, and the cameras depict a world falling into darkness. It only makes the fires brighter.

“You should eat something,” he says around seven. “Dinner.”

She barely looks at him. “Not hungry.” Her phone is beside her; she keeps checking it, despite having its volume on high. There haven’t been any messages.

He lets out a breath. There’s little food in the fridge—a moldy box of Chinese take-out from weeks ago. There are other foods: David had an entire store of canned goods, dehydrated meals, and MREs. Frank retrieves a can of chicken soup, because it’s the most innocuous thing he can think of.

He sets a mug of warmed soup at her elbow. She doesn’t look at him. “Not hungry, Frank.”

“First rule of survival,” he says quietly. “Eat, even when you don’t want to. Also, hydrate.”

“You’re mainlining coffee.”

“Anything that’s not alcohol has some degree of hydration,” he answers.

She shoots him a glance that is half-amusement, half-irritation, but she takes the soup.

Around two in the morning, her phone loses service. He hears her curse, bang her phone against the tabletop.

And around four, the power goes out.

The computers flicker, and for a heartbeat, all is silent. Then the back-up generators groan to life. Frank goes to turn the cameras off manually, switching off monitor after monitor. They can’t afford to run the generators unless absolutely necessary; he isn’t sure how much fuel they have.

There is a kerosene lamp in the cupboard. Frank lights it, places it on the table... beside a pot of white roses. He looks at it, then at Karen. “You still have these? You brought them?"

The glow casts long shadows across Karen’s face. Her phone sits on her knee, her fingers loosely clasped around it. “Don’t have any family heirlooms,” she murmurs. “And, I liked them.”

Warmth unfurls inside his chest. It’s unfamiliar, and he tries not to examine it too closely. 

She sighs. “No chance of seeing what’s going on out there, right? Not with the power down?” 

“There’s a crank radio,” he says. “We’ll use that to see if we can pick up anything.”

They go to the small couch. It’s comfortable enough, and Frank sets the radio on the ground, tuning through channels. There’s a standardized emergency announcement, telling people not to panic—and probably inducing more panic. The signal fades in and out, white noise filling the room.

Karen leans against him. Her head is bowed, hair shading her eyes.

Once, he might have pulled away. As much as he cares for her, he never wanted his problems to spill over into her life. 

Now, he wraps an arm around her. Lets his fingers slide back and forth along her arm, moving in gentle strokes. She shudders beneath his touch, but he feels some of the tension leave her. “Thanks,” she says. “For coming to get me.”

“Had to make sure you were okay,” he says.

“I knew I would be,” she says. Her voice is ragged. “I always am. Everyone around me—they’re the ones that die.” Her nails dig into his arm, as if she needs something to hold onto. He lets her.

They wait like that until dawn.

The power never comes back.

* * *

That first week is a blur.

It’s full of sleepless nights—Frank can’t rest for more than two or there hours. There are two cots in the back room, and while he offers to push one into the living space, Karen refuses. “I’d rather not be alone, if that’s fine,” she says.

And he gets it—because he watched too many people vanish into thin air. There’s still that nagging fear that if they’re separated, he’ll return to an empty room and ash on the floor. So they sleep in separate cots, a few feet apart. He learns that she doesn’t snore, rarely turns over, and her nightmares are the quiet kind. She doesn’t come awake screaming, but rather, with a ragged intake of breath.

They establish a few routines. David installed a rain collection system while he lived here, so there’s plenty of fresh water. It’s not heated, which he doesn’t mind, but he hears Karen cursing when she fills a bucket to wash herself. Her hair isn’t perfectly curled and her lips are chapped and this is the most undone he’s ever seen her. Not that it’s a bad look—he doesn’t think she could ever look bad. It’s just new.

As he wakes first, he makes breakfast over a camp stove every morning. Usually it consists of powdered eggs, dehydrated vegetables, and instant coffee. Karen takes over dinners—finding whatever canned or dehydrated food suits her best. There are a few meals of pad thai that aren’t too bad, and the spaghetti almost makes him smile. “Never thought I’d be eating these again,” he comments one night.

“You did this before? With Micro?”

He shrugs. “We had more real food. I could leave, and he sometimes had stuff delivered nearby. He’d make sandwiches. I cooked him some Vietnamese when he was hungover.”

“You can cook?” She sounds more than a little surprised.

“Why, Miss Page. You didn’t think all of my skills had to do with guns, did you?”

“No,” she replies, smiling. “You forget, I also know you can steal cars.”

There are a few moments like that, when they both forget that the world has gone to shit. It’s nice, even if it doesn’t last.

* * *

They run out of coffee after five days and Frank thinks that maybe a quick death might have been preferable.

A headache pounds at the base of his skull, knotted muscles drawn tight. He is working on the radio, trying to see if they can extend the frequency. But his fingers aren’t steady and he keeps blinking.

Finally, Karen’s hands reach down and cover his. “Stop that. You’re going to break something.”

He grumbles. 

Her face is set in lines of gentle understanding. “Headache?” she asks.

“It’s nothing,” he says curtly. Because it isn’t. He’s dealt with bullet wounds and stabbings with little more than a blink. It’ll take more than caffeine withdrawal to lay him low. But then again—it’s not just the headache. It’s the normalcy slipping away, the acknowledgement that he may never have another cup of coffee again. 

Karen touches his shoulder; he can feel the warmth of her fingers through his cotton shirt. “May I?”

He isn’t sure what she’s asking permission for, but he’ll give it to her. She could do anything to him, and he’d let her—she won’t hurt him, and even if she did, he’d probably end up thanking her for the privilege.

It’s a screwed up way of thinking, but he’s never claimed to be a model of mental health. “Yeah,” he says.

Her fingers slide up the back of his neck, thumb moving in small circles alongside his spine. She works slowly, light pressure to the base of his skull, and then she focuses on the knotted muscles with a gentle hand. It feels so fucking good that he just closes his eyes and groans. Slowly, the headache recedes. It has been so long since anyone touched him.

“Better?” she asks. Her touch has lightened, and he feels her fingertips drift across the tightly shorn hair at the back of his head.

“Yeah.” He rolls his shoulders. “Thanks.”

“Your hair’s soft,” she says. Her hand drops away, as if in embarrassment. She walks around the table, looks at the dismantled radio. “You think you’ll grow it out again?”

“You want me to try for that man bun?”

She flashes him a smile.

* * *

Two weeks after the world ends, Frank says he’s going to scout the area.

They’re both agitated, caged in by the cement walls. But it’s more than that. He needs to see the lay of the land, find out if it’s safe to go outside. Karen is less than pleased when he says he’ll be going out alone. He can see the arguments on her lips even before she can give voice to them.

“Listen to me,” he says. “It’s not a matter of toughness or being capable. I know you’re plenty capable.” He takes a breath. “It’s about experience. I’ve done this sort of thing before. And recon missions are best done alone.”

“You make this sound like you’re going behind enemy lines,” she says.

“Because I am.” He gestures vaguely at the door. “That out there? It’s not New York anymore. It’s… something else. It’s going to be filled with terrified, desperate, hungry people, and they’ll tear one another apart in the name of safety.”

“People are better than that,” she says.

“Yeah, maybe.” He doubts it, but he’s not going to debate this. The truth of the matter is, he’s not going to risk her. Not out there—not without knowing what awaits him. “But if there’s some kind of shitshow out there, I can get through it on my own. I’m good at that.”

Her face sours. “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” he says. “But it has to be done.”

In the end, he wears all black—down to the bulletproof vest he digs out of a crate. There’s a Glock at his belt and a shotgun at his back, and an empty duffel for supplies. Lastly, he finds a gas mask. He’s still not sure if the attack was biological or chemical. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be. 

“Lock the door behind me,” he says. “I won’t go farther than a three mile radius, but if something happens—stay in the bunker. If I’m not back for a day or two, that’s fine. If I’m not back for a week, take the maps and go north. Camp Smith is about thirty miles from here—you can get that far. Tell them you’re Pete Castiglione’s widow. Homeland kept my military background, at least.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off. “I don’t care if you don’t like it. A military base won’t let a civilian journalist inside, but they may decide differently if you’re a Marine’s wife.”

“Jesus, Frank,” she says. She takes hold of his vest, giving him a little shake. She holds on, and he realizes how close they are—he can see the pale blonde of her eyelashes, the flecks of gray in her eyes, and the tight press of her mouth.

He can’t reassure her; there are no more reassurances to give. He brushes a kiss against her cheek—feels the softness of her skin, smells the industrial soap she washed with, and then he has to pull away.

“Just stay safe,” he tells her. “Whatever you have to do to stay safe—do it, and make no apologies.”

“You’re coming back,” she replies. And it’s not a plea or a request, but a command.

“Yes, ma’am.”

When he steps through the heavy doors, his strides lengthen. All the old field instincts settle into the spaces between muscle and bone. He was in recon for years—and he’s damned good at it. This is just anther mission.

He hears the lock click shut behind him and he doesn’t look back.


	2. Chapter 2

Karen Page has read a little poetry.

It comes of being an English major in college—and dating more than few pretentious assholes. She has had boyfriends murmur sonnets against her bare skin, read Frost in classes, and studied the obligatory Eliot pieces. But after her freshman classes were done, she moved onto more useful studies: business writing, PR, and, yes, one class on journalism. She learned how to build Excel documents and format memos. When she left college, it was with enough skills to work in any office.

Now, she sits alone in an underground bunker and peruses a stranger’s book collection.

David Lieberman liked Tennyson. She discovers his collected works on a bookshelf amidst several technical manuals, a notebook of incomprehensible codes, and a bodice ripper. He had varied tastes.

She’s already thinking of Lieberman in the past tense—and that makes her heart ache. Because she knows that while Frank came here partly because it is safe, it was also to find his friend.

There are some losses that are too enormous to truly comprehend. It reminds her of how she once read that third degree burns can sometimes be less painful than their second or first degree counterparts. It’s because the damage goes so deep that nerves are gone, that the body simply cannot understand what’s been done to it.

That is how it feels to sit alone in an underground bunker with a notebook, cupboards of dehydrated meals, blank computer screens, and a dead man’s bookshelf. She knows that she’s lost… well. She isn’t even sure how much she’s lost. The Bulletin, most of her coworkers, her home, and the sense that she knew what tomorrow would bring. She is pretty sure she lost Foggy, and she cannot contemplate that without feeling as if she might lay down on the couch and never rise.

She’s numb.

Because the world has ended, and she doesn’t know why. That’s the worst part. Something happened, but she doesn’t know what—which means she cannot fight back.

She understands why Frank had to leave the bunker; he is as restless as she is, but unlike her, he’s experienced enough to do something about it. It’s why she didn’t fight him more—he needs to go, and she needs to let him. He can venture back out into that unfamiliar landscape and perhaps discover what enemy they’re facing. See how much of New York is left. And maybe, bring back a bit of hope.

But the thought that he may never come back, that whatever took all those people will take him, too—

She presses her hand to her eyes and breathes.

She wears borrowed clothes—they belonged to Lieberman, she thinks. There were several plastic cartons full of spare shirts and jeans, and a few bathrobes that she won’t touch. When she packed her few things, clothing wasn’t at the top of her list. What she grabbed were a few pictures—one of her family, another of her, Matt, and Foggy—a worn paperback copy of _Watership Down_ that her mother had owned, her passport, and a flash drives full of old emails and files that she may never access again because who knows if they’ll find power or working computers.

Once Frank has vanished through the front doors, Karen sets herself up with a cup of tea and that book of Tennyson. Surrounded by steel walls, with no other sounds to keep her company, she feels more alone than she can ever remember. Her fingers track down a page at random, and she begins to read.

_Here at the quiet limit of the world._

* * *

The first thing that hits him is the silence.

New York has always been loud—the squeal of car tires, the shouts of people, music, laughter, curses, machinery. He remembers the sound of violins on street corners, of children calling out to friends, taxi drivers honking at one another.

Now—it’s quiet.

And that unnerves Frank far more than the sounds of fighting. A battle is something he could find. A battle is something he could win.

But this is oblivion, and he doesn’t know how to fight that.

He pulls the gas mask on, secures it, and keeps to the shadows of the buildings. He moves with the slow, careful step of a predator in unknown territory. Every movement is measured, deliberate, and he takes nothing for granted. The first storefront he comes across is—well, it looks like a ruin.

All of the windows are broken open, merchandise plucked from inside. Looters, then. People alive to loot. That’s something.

There are cars strewn about, some abandoned in the street, some doors open and others carefully locked. As if their owners expect to be back at any moment. Smoke still lingers in the air, a haze that clings to the horizon. Glass crunches beneath his boots as he walks, eyes darting in every direction.

He isn’t entirely alone; he sees movement in a window and his gun barrel swings up. He retreats into the shelter of a shop’s awning and waits.

The curtain twitches, and Frank catches a glimpse of an old man. He has a shock of white hair and wears a heavy coat. 

Some people are laying low. Good for them.

Frank moves on.

The thing about disasters is how random they are: it doesn’t matter if it’s fire or weather or bombs. Some houses will remain intact, while others are destroyed. The same holds true here. Some of the buildings have shattered windows and doors falling off their hinges, while others are utterly untouched. A few dogs wander through the streets, gazing at Frank. He makes no move toward them; feral dogs can be more vicious than most wild animals, as they have no fear of humans. They move on, to his relief. The last thing he wants is to have to put them down. 

He sees a few people here and there. An older man with a teenage girl, presumably his granddaughter. They’re both armed, and when they see Frank, the man gives him a narrow-eyed look. Frank nods, moving on so they won’t think he’s a threat. There’s a twenty-something young woman with a cat in her backpack and a hatchet in her hand. She leans against a motorcycle and gives Frank a level stare. Again, he moves on. 

There’s a wariness to each encounter and Frank recognizes it—survivors have a certain look to them. Hard-edged and sharp, ready to snarl and fight. And only people with such skills would be out on the streets. 

He finds the military blockade about a mile from the bunker. It’s been hastily set up, but he can see the armed men at the barricade. They’re armored and armed, but no masks. Which must mean that the air is safe. Probably.

Frank pulls off his own mask. He has a decision to make. A wrong move could get him killed—and he can’t die here. Not while there’s someone waiting for him.

But he also can’t skulk around in the corners and come back empty-handed. With a grimace, Frank slides the shotgun into its holster at his back, then strides into the street. The soldiers notice him at once: rifles come up.

Frank raises both hands, palms out. “Hey,” he calls. “Just here to talk.”

The two men glance at one another. Then one says, “Put your weapons on the ground.”

Frank nods, moves slowly, and sets both the pistol and shotgun on the pavement. “What unit are you with?”

The man that spoke stands a little straighter. “Second battalion, one-oh-eight.”

“They brought you in from Utica?” Frank keeps his palms out. Unthreatening. 

The man relaxes a little. “Who’re you with?”

“First civilian division, at the moment,” Frank says, flashing a smile. “But I was a marine.”

It’s the right thing to say. The two soldiers lower their rifles completely, stances relaxing into something casual. “What’re you doing out here?” the second man asks.

Frank gestures at the city. “When everything went to hell, I took my family and laid low. We haven’t been able to make contact with anyone out here, so I’d appreciate a bit of information, if you’re willing.”

The first man nods. “Smart. Half the people who tried to leave ended up in car accidents or trampled. The rest—well. We’ve been rounding as many up as possible. They should’ve stayed put. Most of the casualties after the attack were due to panic. If they’d stayed quiet, they might have survived. We’ve got shelters throughout the city—here, one in Yonkers, another in Huntington. We’re trying to find as many as we can.”

Frank glances behind the two men; he can’t see much through the fence. “Why?”

“City infrastructure’s gone to hell,” the man replies. “You must’ve noticed the lack of power—no water, no nothing. At least here, we’ve got rations and water that won’t make you sick. And after the Decimation, we’re going to need everyone. You should bring your family here. We need people who’ve served, retired or not. We’ve got a shortage of hands.”

The single word settles at the base of Frank’s neck like a cold weight. His trigger finger twitches involuntarily.

“What’d you call it?” he says quietly.

The second man heaves a breath. “That’s what they’re calling it—the Decimation. Load of horseshit, since it’s not ten percent of people that got killed in the attack.”

There it is. The stark truth of the matter. Those people Frank saw vanish—they’re gone, and they’re not coming back. Not that he ever truly thought otherwise... but they do live in a world of monsters and strange occurrences. There was the smallest part that hoped he’d been wrong. 

“What did it?” he says hoarsely.

The man shakes his head. He clears his throat, trying to push back any emotion. He’s not good at it; fear leaks through. “We—we don’t know. Some kind of weapon, that’s what they’re calling it. Wasn’t just America that got hit—this shit is global.”

The _world._ The entire world suffered this.

Frank’s heartbeat throbs behind his ribs. “How many people?” he asks. “How many people died?”

The men exchange a look. For a few moments, neither answers—and Frank has to bite down on his own tongue not to lash out, to demand answers.

It’s the first man who replies.

“Half,” he says. “Half the world, as far as we can tell.”

* * *

Karen is asleep on the couch when she hears the door rattle.

Her pulse goes from steady to a thrumming gallop in the space of a few moments. She straightens, picks up her handgun from the coffee table, and angles herself toward the door.

“Karen,” comes Frank’s voice, and all the fear leaves her in a rush. He’s back. Her fingers are a little unsteady when she undoes the locks, and then the door is swinging open and he’s there. Her eyes track over him: no sign of injury, a heavy duffel bag at his shoulder, and his face is utterly expressionless. She has only seen that expression two times: the first when two men lay dead on a diner floor, and the second when he was dragging his old CO into the forest. 

_Fuck._

“What happened?” she asks.

He walks into the bunker, sets his guns down on the table, and hefts the duffel bag onto the couch. “I found some clothes for you,” he says.

“Found?”

He grimaces. “There was an outdoors store that hadn’t been entirely ransacked yet. I went shopping.”

That is—entirely unlike him. Frank is many things, but he’s not a thief. She’s seen him pay for everything in cash, leaving tips for servers and baristas. Even in the face of… _whatever_ this is, she can’t imagine him looting a store. Which means that whatever happened is even worse than she suspected.

“Frank,” she says, and catches him by the arm.

He won’t look at her, not for several heartbeats. Hers are unsteady.

Finally, his gaze comes up. And she sees the raw, unfiltered pain in his eyes. “What did you find out?” she asks. “Frank, tell me.”

Again, it takes a few seconds. It’s as if he has to dredge up the words from some deep place within himself.

“Half,” he says. His voice breaks on the word, and he tries again. “Half of the world died in twenty four hours.”

Karen isn’t aware of moving; she isn’t aware of anything at all—but then she’s on the floor. Cement beneath her knees, rough against her fingers. It feels as if she’s in that car again, nineteen and high and stupid, and the world is upended and she can’t catch her breath, can’t see straight, can’t even hear her own voice when she speaks. And she is speaking, she realizes. A single word ebbs up and out of her.

“No,” she whispers. “No, no, no.”

Her father. Foggy. Marci. Ellison. Matt. Brett. Her upstairs neighbor who was elderly and liked to wave hello every time Karen walked by. Those interns who kept trying to bring her tips but only ever wanted to hear stories of her crime beat. Her sources. Her home town. Hell’s Kitchen. All of it—halved. She doesn’t know who survived and who didn’t—well, except for Ellison. The rest…

Tears burn hot and she squeezes her eyes against them.

The numbness gives way. That internal wall that was keeping the pain from her finally breaks, and everything rushes in at once. She can barely breathe and she’s quaking so hard it’s a wonder she hasn’t collapsed into a heap on the floor. 

She can finally feel all the damage that her life has been dealt— _and it fucking hurts_.

She’s dimly aware of Frank pulling her against him. Her face is tucked into the crook of his neck, and she can smell the city on him. He’s talking, and she only knows that because she can feel the words rumbling through him. What he’s saying, she doesn’t hear. One of his hands is on her back, the other cradled around her neck and head. It would feel nice, if she could feel anything nice at all. 

She isn’t sure how long they stay like that: on the concrete floor, leaning against one another.

* * *

That night she can’t sleep.

Every time she drifts off, she comes awake with a start. She is half-convinced that her edges will begin to crumble, that she’ll drift away. Or worse, she’ll wake and find Frank gone, and she’ll be alone in all of this. 

Finally, around two in the morning, she gets up. She turns on the camper stove and boils water for tea.

“Make two cups?”

She glances up, sees Frank a few feet away. There are hollows beneath his eyes and he’s paler than she can ever remember—and that’s counting the time she saw him with shrapnel sticking out of his arm and blood cascading down his face. “Sure."

They drink the tea together in silence. She supposes there aren’t words for this—the English language doesn’t have enough vocabulary to articulate the kind of loss they’ve been dealt. When her cup is empty, Frank says, “We need to leave New York.”

She looks at him sharply. “You said the national guard is building shelters here.”

“Yeah.” He lets out an unhappy breath. “Thing is, I’ve seen how this shit goes down. Refugee camps are never pretty. Disease will spread like wildfire, and there’ll be abuses. There always are. And I mean—half the population is gone. How long do you think it’ll be until some government asshole decides to institute mandatory repopulation tactics or some other fucked up shit?”

She shakes her head; she hasn’t thought that far ahead.

“Didn’t know you watched Handmaid’s Tale,” she says.

“Curt lent me the book,” he says, with a twitch of his mouth. “Right after _Moby Dick_ and _The Count of Monte Cristo_. He said I needed boning up on my classics.”

“Smart man.”

“I’ve always said so. He’d disagree.” He smiles fondly but then it drops away.

Karen crosses her arms, trying to hug warmth back into herself. “So what are we going to do?”

His finger twitches against the cup. “I think—I think we need to head south. I know a place in Kentucky. One of the men from my unit was living off the grid. He built a cabin, had defenses. It’d probably be a safe place to live.”

“So we run?”

His gaze is steady and unwavering. “I knew you wouldn’t like it. But—you want to keep track of all this, right?” He gestures at her notebook. “When humanity figures this out, and it will—it always does—then someone needs to be around to write about it.” He sounds so earnest that it makes her heart hurt. “I’ve read your stuff, Karen. You’re good. Really good. If anyone can tell this story and do it justice, it’s you.”

She looks down at her empty mug. “You read my articles?”

A breath. “Yeah.”

She forces herself to look up. Part of her wants to say that she was trying to keep track of him, too. That she took the crime beat half out of a desire to find him, to do what she could to keep his name out of the papers. She thinks of him picking up old copies of the Bulletin and her throat goes a little tight. “I could’ve gotten you a subscription for free,” she says.

He laughs; it’s hoarse and quick. “Yeah, well. I managed.”

She considers. It’s true that New York probably isn’t the best place to be right now; winters will be harsh, so going south could save their lives. And the idea of submitting to the authorities for things like food and water does make her uneasy. She’s seen too much corruption in her life to blindly trust people in power.

She does trust Frank, though. And if he thinks this is best, she’ll trust that.

“How would we get there?”

“I have a car,” he says. “That was the other thing I did yesterday. It’s parked outside.”

* * *

In the morning light, she sees Frank’s car.

“Holy shit,” she says, when she sees his van. Then she begins laughing. It isn’t polite laughter—but the kind that shakes through her whole body, makes her snort and lean on her own knees. It’s almost embarrassing, but she can’t help herself.

“What?” he says.

“This is the most on-brand thing I’ve ever seen,” she manages to say. “Oh my god, Frank.”

He tilts his head in a silent question.

“You own a _murder van_ ,” she says, finally getting herself under control.

He blinks. “It is not a murder van.”

“It’s black. And not like, shiny, expensive black. This is _matte black_.”

“It’s non-reflective,” he says. “Better camouflage.”

She points. “You have a row of flood lights on the roof.”

“For visibility.”

“There are no windows.”

He gives her a look. “Because I didn’t want anyone to see in.”

“And why is that?”

She has left him no way out. “Because the back of the van was filled with guns,” he admits.

She nods. “Murder van.”

He tosses her a duffel bag; she catches it easily. “Well, maybe it’ll scare off any looters. Come on, let’s load it up.”

They move the essentials into the van: tools, communication equipment, medical supplies, batteries, rope, that small stove, and so much more. It feels like packing for some kind of post-apocalyptic camping trip… which is pretty accurate. Finally, Frank surveys the van with a clinical sweep, then says, “You got everything you need?”

Her own things are shoved in a duffel bag: the clothing that Frank brought for her, her few family memories, and her worn copy of _Watership Down_. She took the volume of poems, too. A small pot of white roses sits in a cup holder between the two front seats.

Frank takes a moment before closing the door to the bunker. He stands there, arms braced on either side of the door, gazing inside. The air is cold and Karen shivers in the breeze, but she waits for him. She watches the line of his shoulders tighten, his finger flex, and then he pulls the doors shut and padlocks them together. When he strides toward her, his face is implacable—but she knows him well enough to see the unease far back in his eyes.

She reaches for him, takes his hand. His fingers are cold against hers, and she squeezes lightly.

They don’t speak, but he takes the driver’s side. She clicks her seatbelt into place and gazes at the horizon. It’s strange—there are no planes, no steam rising from the sidewalks, no flicker of movement at the bridges. Everything is still and quiet, and it makes her want to close her eyes, to pretend they’re out in the middle of nowhere instead of a city that should be thriving.

“We can’t take the highways,” says Frank. “If there’ll be problems or checkpoints, it’ll be on highways. I’ve got a map—we’ll take backroads.”

Karen nods. “How many miles is it?”

“I think around eight hundred.”

She reaches into the glove compartment. There are a few CDs, and she begins rummaging about. “Well. I guess we should find something to listen to, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sending hugs to everyone who has read & commented. You are all amazing. <3


	3. Chapter 3

They leave the city slowly.

It takes time to weave between the abandoned cars and the wreckage. More time to find a way out of the city that isn’t blockaded off, or a bridge that isn’t controlled by the government. Karen watches as Frank leans over the steering wheel, his shotgun across the dashboard, eyes sharp and knuckles tight. They pass several groups of survivors: some are making their way toward the camps and others seem to be leaving the city. A few look at the van and cry out, asking to be let in.

Karen’s heart twists and Frank drives a little faster.

“Pity has no place in survival,” he says, once the cries have died away. And the words make her angry, because she wants to say that empathy is the only reason humanity will survive. But she bites back her reply, glances out the window and then down to the map. She traces her fingernail across the paper, down the lines that will lead them west, then south.

It takes nearly a full day to get out of the city, to leave behind the skyscrapers and concrete, to turn toward a greener world and drive into it. They cross into Jersey by the time the sun is setting, and then Frank turns off onto a side road, finds a clump of trees, and parks the van behind them.

This is how they settle into a routine.

Karen sets up the camper stove, boils water for pasta and opens a can of tomato sauce. They still have a little powdered parmesan. Frank scouts the area—vanishing for a few minutes before returning to nod and open up the back of the van. He unrolls the two cot mattresses and lays them out in the back of the van; there’s enough space for both of them. Once the pasta is eaten, Frank scrubs the dishes clean while Karen takes a roll of toilet paper and finds a discreet place to empty her bladder. They’re not staying in any one place for too long, so there’s no need to dig a latrine.

She changes into what functions as pajamas these days: athletic leggings and a tank with no bra. Frank wears all of his clothes but has removed his boots. She looks at the two cots—they’re pressed together, as there’s little room in the van. They may as well be sleeping in the same bed. And in another world, she might have hesitated. But she’s exhausted and the food settles in her stomach like a strong drug. All she wants is sleep.

She crawls in first, pulling one of the heavy wool blankets around herself. She turns on her side, listens as Frank closes the van doors and locks them. He shifts a bit more, checking a few things, and then she feels him settle in at her back. She can hear his even breaths, feel the warmth of him even through the blanket.

The air between them feels a bit too thick, heavy with unspoken things, and then she says, “Sorry if I kick you.”

He lets out a breath that is mostly a laugh. “I’ll probably snore.”

“I’ve been known to steal blankets.”

“I can do without.”

She snorts. “Don’t be a martyr. If I take your blanket, take it back.”

“Noted.”

She smiles into the dark. The tension eases, and she feels more comfortable than she has in days. The silence around them is due to the country, not an empty city. And she’s not alone in this.

“Goodnight, Frank,” she says softly.

“Night,” he answers.

* * *

On the second day, they make it across Jersey and into Pennsylvania.

They drive in turns, one with an eye on the map while the other takes the wheel. Whenever they see an abandoned car, they pull up beside it. Frank has a system to siphon gas from other cars—a hollow plastic tube, a gas canister, and a quick application of suction. Gravity does the rest, so long as the canister is lower than the gas tank.

They take backroads, avoiding highways and towns alike. Which means their route will be roundabout; normally, a trip to Kentucky would only take perhaps two days. But at this pace, Karen estimates it’ll take a week. Their path weaves through rural Pennsylvania, and then they’ll just cross the corner of Ohio before curving south into Kentucky. The cabin is in the rural mountains, and Frank says he can find it, even if he can’t quite pinpoint it on the map.

They’re still close to the city, so they do see other people. Most are wary but not unkind. A family of five living out of a school bus. Two men and their adopted daughter in an RV. A man on horseback—and all he needs is a cowboy hat to be something out of an old western. Frank keeps his shotgun across the dashboard every time they come across other survivors.

That night, they park the van outside of a small town. Karen can see a few lights flickering in the distance, but Frank insists on not venturing too close. Karen doesn’t protest, but she doesn’t see other people the way he does. He seems to view them as threats, whereas she sees fellow survivors. They all managed to escape the horrors of whatever weapon was used against humanity. Surely that should engender some kind of alliance.

They eat granola—both are too tired to bother with even a meager amount of cooking. Even when she’s still, Karen think she can still feel the van moving. The thrum of the engine has settled beneath her skin.

She falls asleep with the wool blanket drawn up over her nose, trapping warm air against her mouth. She put on two pairs of socks to keep her feet warm, but she’s still a little cold.

She wakes to Frank having a nightmare.

He thrashes upright, a wordless sound rising in his chest. Even without words, it sounds like a plea. His eyes rake across the van, back and forth, searching. Karen sits up, unsure whether or not to reach for him. Finally, she clicks on a flashlight. He is shaking, sweat a sheen across his face and neck, fists clenched in the blanket.

“Frank,” she says, then doesn’t know how to continue.

The muscles in his forearms quiver; he seems to force himself to relax his grip on the blanket. A few more moments, and he speaks: “Sorry,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Shit—I—”

She touches his shoulder, lightly resting her fingers there. “Don’t you dare apologize.” That shuts him up. She hands him a thermos filled with water and he gulps half of it. Then he presses the back of one hand to his mouth, a shudder shaking through him. Finally, he looks at her. In the stark illumination of the flashlight, his face is all hard lines and sharp edges.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

She knows he isn’t referring to the water. “You want to talk about it?”

He hesitates and looks away. “I—no. Not really.”

“Okay.”

She knows something of nightmares. They can reopen wounds, and in the dark of the night, make it seem as if a person’s entirely alone. Karen remembers her first few months after leaving home—waking in a cold sweat, tasting gasoline on the air and her brother’s name on her lips.

Maybe it’s the thought of family that makes Karen dig into her bag. She finds the old, worn paperback copy of _Watership Down_. It smells like old paper and home.

Frank watches her. “You going to read?”

“Aloud, if you don’t mind.”

He smiles faintly. “Page. Are you offering to read me a children’s bedtime story?”

“My mom used to read this aloud to me and my brother,” she replies. “You ever read it?”

“No.” He nods at the cover. “It’s about rabbits, I’m guessing?”

Karen opens the book to the first page, angling the flashlight so she can get a good look. “How about this—I read until you’re bored and can go back to sleep, okay?’

He nods. “All right.”

The epigraph is familiar, and Karen can almost recite it without looking. “ _Why do you cry out thus, unless at some vision of horror? The house reeks of death and dripping blood_.”

Frank’s hand lands on her wrist. “Wait. You said this book was for _kids?_ ”

“You said that,” she answers. “Not me.”

He squints at the cover. “It’s got fucking rabbits on it. What else am I supposed to think?”

“It is about rabbits. And death, and life, and danger, and the journey for a better home after disaster strikes,” she says, perhaps a little too airily. “I don’t know; I thought it was kind of appropriate. And it’s either this or Tennyson.”

“Death rabbits or poetry,” says Frank. “All right, death rabbits, it is.”

Karen begins to read again. She has a pretty good voice for reading, she thinks. And she knows these words well enough not to stumble. She gets through all of chapter one and half of chapter two before Frank’s eyes become unfocused, and she clicks off the flashlight.

This time, they sleep the rest of the night.

* * *

The third day, Karen does the bulk of the driving. Frank has circles beneath his eyes and while he claims he’s fine, she offers to let him nap in the passenger seat. He decides to use the time to pick through the van’s CDs instead.

They drive through a forest, down a winding narrow road with no shoulder. The greenery is beautiful in the morning light and Karen finds herself enjoying the journey; her fingers tap against the wheel in time with the music and she’s smiling.

“Should have brought more music,” Frank is saying. Well, grumbling. “Next town we see, we’re going to investigate if they have any place with music. I am not spending the rest of my life listening to classic rock of the sixties.”

“Why do you even have that CD?”

“Lieberman,” he says, with a shake of his head.

She laughs, gaze turning back to the road. They are rounding a corner, her foot tapping on the brake, when she sees a glimmer of silver across the road.

It looks like something bright—a line of water or perhaps ice, but it’s too close to study. The van goes over it and—

That’s when the world explodes.

Everything is upended—gravity seems to reverse itself and Karen slams into her seatbelt with tooth-jarring force. The world spins around once, twice, and then goes black.

When Karen wakes, her hair cascades across her face. She blinks and the light sears her eyes. Pain begins making itself known throughout her body: her chest aches like someone punched her repeatedly in the ribs; her hair feels strangely damp; her arm has sharp pinpricks of discomfort running to her elbow. Sight and sensation return first—the world is strangely dark—all she can see is pavement and glass, with a little light coming in through the van’s sides. It takes another few moments for sound to come back. The van creaks all around them, something is drip-drip-dripping to the ground, and her voice is high in her throat. A wordless moan—a denial.

She’s upside down. She’s upside down in a car, and there’s blood and _oh God_ , she can’t—she can’t do this again. The seatbelt is cutting across her waist and chest, and there’s glass everywhere and her breathing is coming too quickly. _Frank. Frank._

If he’s dead, if she killed another person she loves—

“Karen? _Karen?_ ”

The sound of Frank’s voice releases something inside of her; a bit of fear ebbs away and she’s breathing more easily, sucking in breath after breath. She turns her head, sees him right there. He’s upside-down, too, eyes dark as night in the dimness of the van. He reaches for her, fingers brushing along her cheek.

“I’m okay,” she croaks.

“You’ve got blood in your hair,” he says.

She touches her scalp, but she’s still too full of adrenaline to truly feel pain. “What happened? What did I hit?”

“Didn’t see.” He reaches down, tries to unlatch his seatbelt, but then he curses. “Fucking thing’s stuck. Glovebox gave way. Can you move?”

She tries, but she can’t; her breathing is so ragged it hurts, and all she can think is, _Not again, not fucking again, please, I can’t do this—_

“Karen.” His voice is soft, insistent.

She can’t look at him. She flings out one hand, trying to steady herself, but the blood is surging to her head and there are spots in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” He sounds worried, as if he thinks she might have been injured in the crash. She doesn’t know how to tell him that she’ll never die in a car crash because that would mean there’s justice in this world, and there’s none, none at all.

She tries for her seatbelt. Her fingers find the latch and press it and then she’s falling forward, doing the world’s most awkward summersault onto the broken windshield. She tries to right herself, but then something slams into the driver’s side window. She lets out a cry and Frank snarls, scrabbling for the broken glovebox.

It’s a crowbar. It catches on the door, and with a screech of metal on pavement, the door is wrenched away. Light floods into the van and she squints. A man kneels beside the van, and he’s smiling. He reaches inside and snags Karen’s shirt, dragging her out.

At the same time, she hears the sound of more protesting metal, and as she’s pulled onto the pavement, she sees them.

Three men—two at the back of the van, and the other hauling Karen to her feet. Her body protests the sudden movement.

“—Shit, did you see what’s back here?”

“Fucking motherload. And you said—”

“Got something else here,” says the man closest to Karen. He has the red-orange hair of a fox and the smile to match.

One of the men, a blonde, gives a low whistle. “Nice take there. What about the other one?”

“Looks like a trucker or something.” The foxed-face one answers.

A dark-haired man says, “Unless the other guy is also a knock-out blonde, then who the fuck cares.”

There’s a laugh, then the crunch of more footsteps. Karen forces herself to study the situation at hand, despite the throbbing in her head.

The van is upside down. The glass is shattered, the sides dented, and there are men digging through the interior. Then she sees the glitter of silver on pavement. It’s about forty feet away—behind them.

A spiked chain. That’s what she saw just before the crash. All of the fear collapses in on itself, coalescing into something harder. Fury. It’s fury kindling at the base of her spine, curling up through her ribs.

This wasn’t an accident. It was a fucking ambush.

“Son of a bitch,” she starts to say.

“Hush, now,” says the foxed-face one. “You’ve got a bump on your head, but you’re all right.” His smile is knife-sharp at the corners.

There are noises coming from inside of the van. Karen can just see Frank—Frank, who is trying to tear himself free, whose seatbelt is stuck and he’s snarling curses.

“Who the fuck are you?” Frank’s voice is rough with anger.

The blonde one slips a revolver from his jeans and thumbs back the hammer. He holds it like he’s seen too many old western movies, but he doesn’t have to be experienced to kill someone. He cocks his head, his smile darting between Frank and Karen.

“Doesn’t really matter to you now, does it?” says the blonde. “Let’s just say we’ll be taking these supplies off your hands. And maybe enjoying a bit of company, too.”

Frank writhes against the dashboard, fingers raking at the seatbelt. He’s pinned and he knows it; she can see the fury in his face. “I’m going to make you eat that gun, asshole.”

The blonde lifts the gun, points it at Frank.

Karen goes ice-cold at the sight.

“Don’t,” she says, and she isn’t sure if she’s telling Frank to stop struggling or the man to put the gun down. “Please, don’t.”

The man with the fox’s smile lets out a chuckle. It sounds comfortable and easy, like Karen just made a joke. “Looks like we’ve got a fighter. Get a knife, Marcus. You used an entire clip on the last one because of your shitty aim.” He spins Karen around, shoves her at the blonde. Pain flares through her head at the sudden movement and then there’s a hand in her hair, yanking her head at an agonizing angle.

“We’ll bring you back to camp,” says the man, still smiling. “Get that head fixed up. See if you’re more amenable then.”

Frank makes a noise that sounds utterly inhuman—an animal sound of pain and fury.

“Frank,” she says, and she’s not sure if it’s to reassure him—or just to say his name. She sees him through the shattered glass, and he looks as if someone’s set fire to his insides, as if he’s burning and cannot find a way to make it stop. Or maybe she’s projecting—because that’s how she feels at this moment.

The foxed-face man says, “And for fuck’s sake, Marcus, get a knife and shut him up.”

They drag her away from the van, off the pavement of the road, and into the woods. There’s three of them and one of her, so she doesn’t struggle. She can’t—not yet. Her feet stumble through the ferns and fallen branches, and it slows them a little, giving her a few more moments to clear her head.

They’re going to kill Frank. They’re going to hurt her.

Their camp is only a short walk away, tucked in a thicket of trees. It looks like it might have once belonged to a campground; there’s a water spigot a few yards away and the ground has an artificially trampled feel to it.

The foxed-faced man goes into one of the tents. “Think we’ve got the hunting knives in your tent, right?”

The blonde steps closer to Karen. He takes her by the elbow, fingers digging in carelessly. It’s the way a person might handle a wild animal they didn’t care about harming. Something in that grasp settles within her. It’s the dehumanization of it. She’s not really a person to them—and that makes up her mind.

Karen has made many terrible decisions in her life. She has tormented herself with them, almost made friends with those bad memories, invited them into herself and her home, let them follow her like shadows.

But she knows—she will never regret this decision.

_Pity has no place in survival._

She closes her eyes for a heartbeat and inhales. She tries to steady her breathing, because her hands need to be steady. With the blonde distracted, she jabs her elbow into his side. The breath whooshes out of him in surprise, but she already has him by the wrist, bending his pinky back until he screams. The gun slips through his fingers.

She seizes the revolver, aims, and shoots the man in the thigh. He goes down with a howl, the sound deafened by the gunshot. Karen shoves him away and he staggers on his wounded leg, falls to the ground. He looks up at her, face drawn with agony and shock, as if he cannot believe that Karen could hurt him. It would almost be funny if she didn’t feel like vomiting.

How many times will she have to pull a trigger before people realize that she can kill just as easily as Frank?

At least six more, it turns out.

One more bullet goes into the blonde. She aims for center of mass, remembering how she used to explode those ceramic buddhas. People don’t shatter but they do break, and Karen turns away before she can see too much of the damage.

The second man takes picks up a shotgun, but Karen takes aim and pulls the trigger three more times. He jerks, spins around, and falls to the forest floor.

The world swims around her in hues of brown and green, and she can’t hear anything. She’s not sure if it’s the gunfire or the blood in her ears.

The last man, the fox-faced one, comes out of the tent slowly. He’s speaking to her, mouth moving as if in slow motion. Part of her wants to tell him that it’s meaningless—whether he’s offering pleas or threats. She raises the gun.

He ducks to one side, and the last bullet slams into the tree behind him. The gun clicks empty and a fresh surge of adrenaline has her shaking, rage raw in her veins. She wants to hurt him. She wants to sink her nails into his skin and tear—not only because he wanted to hurt her, not because he would have killed Frank, not because who knows how many people have been killed by these three, but because—

She told Frank she thought humanity was better than this.

And these men proved her wrong.

The man sprints into the woods, weaving through the undergrowth and the trees, until he vanishes from sight. For a heartbeat, Karen stands there. Everything is quiet and still, and she can’t move. She can’t imagine moving. But she has to.

She forces her numb legs to take one step, and then another. Sound is coming back to her, slowly, as if from underwater.

The first thing she hears is Frank. His voice is guttural and hoarse as if he’s been screaming for hours.

“—Kill you, you hear me? You fucking touch her and I’ll tear you apart—”

As the van comes into view, she sees Frank crawling out of the half-collapsed window. There’s a piece of bloodied glass clasped in his hand; he must have used it to cut himself free. When his eyes alight on her, the snarls of fury die away, leaving a ringing silence in their wake. Time has taken on a strangely mutable quality; it seems to slow, to drag out when their eyes meet. Understanding passes between them, and it feels as if an eternity is contained in that moment.

 _I did it_ , she says. Without words, because they are unneeded. _I killed them._

The corners of his mouth draw tight. She can read his answer in the dark hue of his eyes. _Good._

And then time speeds up again, and Frank is standing before her, taking the gun from her fingers before checking the chamber. When he is sure it’s empty, he shoves the gun into the waist of his jeans. Then his hands are on hers, moving up her arms, to her shoulders, up to her cheek, then just above her ear. There is pain—she feels the sharp spike of it when he touches her scalp.

“Hey, hey,” he says, and it’s only then she realizes she’s making a sound. A small keening noise at the back her throat. “Look at me. Karen.”

She looks at him.

There is no judgement in his eyes—nothing even close. She sees anger and concern tangled together. “You’re good,” he says. “You hear me? You’re good.” She’s not sure if he’s speaking of her wound or the gun smoke clinging to her or that not all of the blood on her clothes is hers.

Frank goes around to the back of the trunk. The doors are still wide open, and the contents are a mess. “Sit down for a sec,” he says. His hands are quick and steady: he rips open an alcohol wipe and runs it across her brow. “Here. Hold this.” He puts a clean cloth in her hand and presses it to her head. Discomfort spikes just above her left ear, but she keeps her hand there. “Pressure,” he says. “Keep holding that. Did you get all of them?”

She blinks at the woods, at the blur of greenery. “Two. The third—I ran out of bullets.”

A sharp exhalation bursts from him. He rises from his crouch smoothly; obviously no bones were broken in the crash. It takes only a few moments for him to rummage around in the chaos of the van and unearth his shotgun.

“There’s a camp,” she says. Her voice is dull but she manages to say the words. She points to the right, through the trees.

He nods. “Yeah, yeah.” He speaks as if he doesn’t truly realize what he’s saying, but he needs to say something. “You stay here, okay? Just hold that bandage in place.”

The orders are almost a relief. Without them, she fears she might simply freeze up, her mind still playing over that moment of weightlessness. That terrible fear when she realized the car was crashing, and the memories that come with it.

He picks up the shotgun, and strides into the forest. His steps are practiced, even the swing of the gun has a bit of grace to it.

She closes her eyes, tries to block out the memories, and simply breathe. She isn’t sure how much time passes; it could be five minutes or an hour.

She remembers this all too well—the aftermath of the universe tipping on its side. Everything has gone to hell, and all she wants is her apartment, her favorite mug full of coffee, the sound of Foggy calling her to ask about Thursday night drinks, Ellison griping at her about deadlines, the smell of newsprint and the taste of city air.

She wants to go home. But there’s no such thing anymore.

A single gunshot cracks through the woods. Karen does not flinch.

_One shot, one kill._

He returns only a few minutes after. His hands are clean, but there’s a bruise darkening beneath his left eye.

He sets the shotgun aside before returning to her. His hand settles at the base of her neck, curling gently. His fingers remain there, thumb along her spine. The weight of his hand feels like the comforting heft of an old blanket. She closes her eyes, exhausted beyond words.

He leans down, presses a kiss to her hairline. It’s a soft touch, and a burst of warmth kindles to life in her stomach.

“You’re good,” he says again, almost as if he needs to reassure himself.

She can’t agree with him. So she says nothing at all.

* * *

The van is fucked.

Frank knows it the moment he takes a good look at the old thing. His mouth presses tight and he has to take a breath. It’s just a van. They’re alive—some of the supplies are unbroken.

They scavenge the camp of their attackers.

It’s simple survival—and Frank feels no guilt about taking from these dead. He drags their bodies out of the clearing first, stacks them behind a cluster of brambles, and leaves them for the forest to claim. There are two cars tucked away behind the tents: a truck and an old Camry. The truck will do. He loads it up with what’s left of their things, and then goes through this new camp, as well. There are knives, air mattresses, tents, and a few other luxuries. He takes them all, binds them with bungee cords and rope and tarp. Obviously this ploy served those bastards well. They’ve probably been moving along the highway, setting up camp, hiding their own vehicles, then sabotaging any passing cars.

These men weren’t doing this for survival—it was sadism. And while Frank has always prided himself on his clean kills, some part of him wished to take more time with that last man.

Karen is trying to pull some of their things out of the front of the van: the picture of his family he kept in the glove compartment, her copy of _Watership Down_ , and the small pot of white roses. Most of the dirt fell out, and he watches as she tries to pack more in, her pale fingers gently probing at the plant’s roots. Trying to make sure that pot of roses he bought off a street vendor months ago will survive.

When the truck is ready to go, Frank walks the forty feet back to the spiked chain. He looks at it, then drags it across the road and tosses it into the bushes. It won’t hurt anyone else there.

Then he returns to their new truck. Darkness is falling, but he doesn’t want to stay here. Not in this place.

Karen climbs up the step into the truck, sliding into the passenger’s side. The seats are faux leather and it smells like some cheap body spray. Frank rolls down his window a few inches before putting the truck in drive. The headlights sweep out across the road.

They haven’t spoken much. Karen has seemed to need some distance and he can give her that much. But as he settles into the new truck, feels the weight and give of the gas pedal, he finds he can’t bear the quiet.

“Thanks,” he says. His voice still sounds a bit rough and he tries to clear his throat.

She blinks. “For what?”

“You saved my life back there.”

Her mouth thins out and she looks at her hands, as if she can’t meet his gaze. “Yeah, well. Wasn’t my first time shooting someone.”

He suspected as much. But it’s nice to have it confirmed.

“You protected yourself,” he says. “Those shitbags aren’t worth your guilt. Don’t go there.”

“Frank,” she says, and he can hear the protest in her voice. She wants to suffer for this, but he won’t let her.

“Karen, no,” he says.

It’s moments like these, he wishes he could articulate everything in such a way that she could understand. But these are all the words he can summon: a denial and her name. It’s what he screamed when those bastards dragged her away, when he heard the gun go off and felt his heart stop for a few moments.

He can’t lose her. If she goes—all that will be left of him are shell casings and smoke, blood and gravel, ghosts and nightmares.

“You were right,” she says.

“What?”

“Whoever did this.” Her fingers tighten on her pants “They didn’t need to wipe out all of humanity. Taking half was enough—we’ll kill each other, in the end.”

Frank Castle is possibly the worst person to argue for the goodness of humanity, so he doesn’t even try. He won’t offer her empty reassurances or lies—they’ve never done that to one another. So he gives her the only thing he can. The truth. “Karen. We’re going to see the end of this, all right?”

“What does that even look like anymore?” she says.

For him, the end of this looks like Karen Page, alive and well. It looks like humanity rebuilding itself, because people may be bastards, but they’re also resourceful as fuck. It looks like finding whoever did this and putting a few hundred bullets in their brain.

“We’ll find out,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely readers, thank you for all of your comments/kudos. It means the world. ❤
> 
> Also, happy Valentine’s Day? (Sorry for the angst.)


	4. Chapter 4

They drive through the night.

Karen doesn’t sleep; her body won’t let her. Every time her eyes begin to slip shut, a jolt goes through her and she jerks awake. It doesn’t help that the truck’s engine has a different rumble than the van’s, or that it smells of unfamiliar cologne and leather. Frank’s dark gaze is fixed on the road, and his knuckles tight on the steering wheel. She doesn’t speak and nor does he. Silence fills up the spaces between them.

Finally, Frank pulls off the road. Gravel crunches beneath the tires and Karen sits up a little straighter. They pull around a thicket of evergreen trees, and she blinks a sign into view. _Ashwood Bed & Breakfast_ is written in a curved script, and she frowns. “What are we…?”

The place isn’t overly large—only a single Victorian-style house. The yard is beautiful—or it would be, in spring. Now, many of the flowers are sleeping beneath beds or carefully pruned into dormancy. “Stay here,” says Frank curtly. “Keep the doors locked.”

“Frank,” she says. It’s all she has to say.

He lets out a breath. “You feeling sore yet?”

She blinks in surprise. It’s true—pain has crept into her back, her neck, even her collarbones. Her head still throbs, even if the bleeding has stopped. “A little,” she says. “But it’s fine.”

“Crashes can do damage you won’t feel at first. We need a place to lie low for a few days.” He picks up the shotgun. “And my back would appreciate a real bed. I haven’t seen any smoke or cars for a while—this place looks deserted. Might as well see if we can catch a few days of rest.”

“But what about the cabin?”

“Not like we have a schedule to keep.” He nods at the building. “I’ll do a quick check, make sure there aren’t already squatters here.”

“And I’m supposed to just sit here?” she asks, frowning.

He shakes his head, taps the glove box. “No, you’re guarding the truck. I put your gun in there. We’ve got too many valuables to leave them unattended.”

Which is a fair point.

He nods, steps out of the truck and quietly shuts the door. Karen flicks the switch on the locks and pulls her gun from the glovebox. Its heft is familiar in her hands, but the weight makes her feel sick rather than comforted. She can’t see any movement in the windows nor any evidence of people, but she remains on edge. It’s too soon after their last encounter with people—and she hates that she’s begun to think of other people as threats rather than allies. She has always known humanity is dangerous, but now the knowledge seems to run through her with every beat of her heart.

It takes about ten minutes and then Frank returns. “Empty,” he says, sliding into the driver’s seat. “A bit of ash in the dining room, and it looks like someone drove away some time ago. We can park in the back, out of sight.”

There is indeed a larger parking lot around back, along with a woodshed and a picnic table. A metal vase of wilted flowers rests beside the door, along with a woven welcome mat. Karen finds herself scrubbing her boots on the mat—an old habit. They go in through a kitchen with a tiled floor and wooden countertops. It smells of stale air and dried flowers, and sunlight filters in through stained glass windows. Karen runs her fingers along a table; dust collects on her nails. She checks one of the cupboards and finds plates and glasses. Another contains a few boxed goods: rice, dried potatoes, flour, salt and beans.

There is a dining room with tables of dark hardwood and what look like antique chairs. Frank goes to the front desk, poking around at the phone and drawers, checking the contents. Karen goes upstairs and finds three bedrooms—each with a large, four-poster bed and fluffy duvet. She picks up one of the blankets, presses it to her face and inhales. It smells of fabric softener and cotton, and she feels grubby just holding it. She needs a bath and a few days worth of sleep.

She hears footsteps on the stairs, and Frank walks into the bedroom. There’s something on his face she hasn’t seen in nearly a day—a half-smile. “Hey,” he says. “Got a surprise.”

She tilts her head. “What?”

He reaches out, fingers hovering over the light switch. Then he turns it on.

A flight flickers overhead, then sparks to life.

Karen’s heart thuds in her chest. “Jesus Christ. Has the power—“

“No.” He stifles that hope before she even has time to truly voice it. “This place has an emergency generator. Probably for when winter storms knock out the power. There’s enough fuel for a day or two, and I already unplugged the fridges and anything else we don’t need. But—I mean. There’s a water heater.”

She lets out a sound of longing. “Please tell me you’re serious.”

“It’ll take about half an hour for the water to really heat up, so don’t jump into the shower right away.” He nods at the bedroom. “You like this one? I can grab our things from the truck if you want to find a laundry room. We may as well wash our clothes, too.”

“Deal.”

Karen goes exploring through the rest of the building; it must have once been a very large home that was redesigned into a business. She finds a little ash on the floor in one of the bedrooms and shudders hard. She closes the door behind her and heads for the stairs. There is a laundry room in the basement, and Karen finds a jug of detergent. There are clean robes in a hamper and she grabs two of them. When she returns to the room, Frank is placing her duffel on a chair. “Basement,” she says. “Two industrial-sized washers.”

“Good.”

Karen slips into the bathroom, pulls off her pants and shirt. Then, after a moment’s thought, adds bra and panties, too. She can’t exactly be picky about how to wash her delicates after the world has ended. She pointedly doesn’t look in the mirror. She doesn’t want to see the blood in her hair nor the dirt on her face. She does see the bruises along her ribs when she looks down at herself: the line of the seatbelt is a red and blue mark across her torso. She follows it with her fingertips, probing gently, until she pulls on her robe and belts it at the waist.

When she emerges from the bathroom, she says, “You should change, too. I can take our clothes downstairs.”

He straightens, glances at her, then raises both brows. “Spa day?”

“Well, it’s either a robe or towel,” she says. “Robe seems less trouble.”

“Right.”

She turns away to give him a bit of privacy and to go through her duffel. All of her new clothes are the kind designed for stylish hikers—moisture-wicking fabric and sleek lines. It’s entirely not her style, but she doubts the future will have many pencil skirts. She digs out all of her clothes, rolling them into a pile. When she turns, Frank looks laughably out of place in his own fluffy white robe.

All of their clothes go in one of the washing machines, and she adds a large helping of detergent. After she sets it for a heavy wash, she returns upstairs; Frank is going through the kitchen and Karen heads back to the bedroom. She wants that shower, wants it more than she’s ever wanted anything. It feels strangely normal, her fingers dangling beneath the water to check the temperature. At first it comes out too cold, then too hot, and then finally something comfortable.

She slips out of the robe then under the clean water. This shower feels wonderful, and she shudders hard beneath the water. She tears into one of the sample soaps and begins scrubbing the dirt from her skin. There’s a tiny bottle of shampoo and she is careful, trying not to open the cut above her ear. But it feels too good not to rub the oil and dust from her scalp. She stands there for a few moments, simply luxuriating in the sensation of warmth and cleanliness.

When she steps out, she carefully wraps her hair in a towel before putting on the robe again. The aches in her back are still making themselves known, and she moves a little stiffly.

Frank is gazing out the window, and when she emerges, he says, “Does anything need stitches?”

She shakes her head. “I did a quick look—it’s all bruises, except of my head. You?”

“I’m fine.”

Of course he would say that. His face is bruised, he probably has whiplash just like she does, he used a piece of glass to cut his seatbelt free—and his fingers in the process.

She gives him a flat look. “Take a shower and we’ll bandage your hand.”

“It’s not deep.”

“Doesn’t have to be deep to get infected. And you might need both hands.”

He relents with a small nod, then retreats into the bathroom. She hears the water turn on, and the thrum of the heater below. Their first aid kit is in his bag, and she pulls it free. There are a couple of ibuprofen and she dry swallows two. Then she lays out antiseptic, bandages, and cotton balls. She can feel her body slowing, exhaustion settling into her bones.

When Frank comes out of the bathroom, his face is clean-shaven. He must have found a razor along with the other toiletries. It makes him look younger, a little sharper, just like when they first met. She never would have thought they’d end up here, after half of the world has simply vanished, in some rural Pennsylvania inn while he sits on the edge of the bed and she cleans a few shallow cuts along his palm. He lets her, silently watching as she pinches the edges of the wounds together and fixes them with tape.

“Karen.”

His voice is soft and she can’t quite meet his eyes. She looks at the corner of his mouth instead. “What?”

He hesitates, and that in itself is starting. Frank has never been one for hesitation. “You sure you’re okay?” 

She looks down at his hand. It’s creased and scarred and there’s fresh blood on a cotton ball between her own fingers. 

She can’t imagine doing this without him. And more than that, she doesn’t want to. “Yeah.”

* * *

They fall into a few old routines, more out of habit than any true desire to eat food or ready themselves for sleep. Frank finds instant mashed potatoes in the kitchen pantry, along with a can of green beans and carrots. The warm food tastes as good as any fine restaurant, and Karen seems surprised by her own appetite. When they’re finished eating—on a table, no less—Frank goes to double-check the locks before returning to the bedroom.

Frank folds their clothes—another habit, and one he doesn’t see a need to break. After all, it’s habits that keep people human, keep people sane. And he’s looking forward to fresh clothes when he goes to sleep tonight.

It’s only when he steps into the bedroom, placing their clean clothes on the desk, that he realizes his presumption. They’ve slept side by side out of necessity, and now that they’re in a place designed for guests, he could take another room. He should take another, because he’s likely to wake her in the middle of the night.

But before he can open his mouth, he sees her bent over the mattress. She’s rearranging pillows and blankets. That absurd fluffy robe is slipping down her shoulder, and his eyes slide down the curve of her bare neck, down to her freckled shoulder. He can see her expression only in profile, but he knows she’ll be frowning with concentration. She’s tugging at the blankets, trying to get them just right. “You want left side or right?” she asks.

That knot of tension eases within him. She wants him here, even knowing the nightmares that follow with him.

She goes to the clean clothes and retrieves a few, vanishing into the bathroom.

Frank pulls on his own clothes—jeans and shirt, because he’ll be damned if he’s only wearing boxers if they’re attacked again—before going to her half-open duffel bag. He finds the copy of _Watership Down_ , then to the bed. There’s a lit candle—probably meant for romantic couple getaways, and it’ll serve well enough. He settles in with the headboard at his back. When Karen comes out of the bathroom, she looks at him and at the book. “You want me to—”

“I’ll read tonight,” he says. “If you’ll let me.” A folded scrap of paper serves as a bookmark and he finds the place she left off.

Karen gets into the bed, pulls her covers up around her. But rather than turn on her side, away from him, she rolls toward. She tucks one hand beneath her pillow and closes her eyes.

It has been years since he read aloud; the words come slowly, and it takes a page or two to find his rhythm. But he does find it—and he falls into the story far more swiftly than he ever expected. When he finishes with two chapters, Karen’s breathing is even and her face still. He closes the book, sets it carefully on the table, then blows out the candle.

He falls into a restless sleep.

There are dreams. There are always dreams.

His dreams taste of gunpowder and copper and they are often filled with the sound of carousel music. Sometimes, he’s in bed at home. Other times, he’s at the park.

This time, he’s in the van again. The seatbelt is cutting across his chest, the buckle broken, and the collapsed dashboard has one of his knees pinned. He can’t move—he can’t move and he is watching Karen half-walk, half-stumble away. A man has a grip on her arm and the fall of her blonde hair is stained with crimson.

He watches the gun come up, sees the blunt barrel press to her throat.

He can’t move. He can’t ever move fast enough.

But he will give her this—he doesn’t look away when the man’s finger pulls the trigger and—

He comes awake with a sharp intake of breath. Every nerve is too raw, alive with pain, both real and remembered, and he has to remind himself that everything’s fine, that he’s safe and Karen is alive and they’re _fine_.

He turns to look at her. Miraculously, she is still asleep. Her hair looks pale white in the darkness, and her fingers are wrapped around a fold in the duvet. Her chest rises and falls, and the rhythm is a comforting one. 

He goes to the window and glances outside. In the half-moon, he can make out the shape of the truck and backyard. There’s nothing moving, nothing out of place. Even so, he still checks the lock on the door. Then he goes back to the bed, sitting on the edge. He scrubs his hands across his face.

“Hey.”

He looks over sharply. Karen blinks at him.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

She sits up, a flicker of discomfort as she does so. She’ll still be feeling the effects of the crash for a few days, he knows. He can still feel them, for all that pain has little meaning to him anymore.

They’ll stay here a few days. He already decided that, but now he’s sure. They’ll stay long enough to recover before moving on. Even with his unease, he forces himself back into the bed. 

For a few minutes, they lay side by side. Unsleeping, unspeaking. He listens to the quiet sounds of Karen fidgeting beside him.

Finally, she speaks. “Do you think anyone else we know survived?” 

It is in the quiet dark, this intimate little bedroom, that it feels safe enough to speak of such things. He’s done some thinking on this, even if he hasn’t wanted to say it aloud. “Some of them had to.”

Her fingers tighten on the duvet. “I don’t think Foggy made it,” she says. “He—he never answered his phone. And… as much as I love him, I’m not sure how well-equipped he’d be to survive in a world like this. He isn’t like us, he isn’t…” Her voice drifts off.

“A survivor?” he says.

She shakes her head. “A killer.”

He huffs out a breath. He’d argue, but she’s right. They’ve both taken lives—her in the name of survival, and him, because death is the only thing he’s ever had a talent for.

She says, “What about your friends? Micro? Your family?”

Frank takes a breath. He has avoided this line of thinking for weeks now. “If—if David survived, he would have kept his family safe. He’d be well-equipped to do it. But… if he had…”

“He would have gone to the bunker?” she asks.

He nods. “Yeah. That they didn’t come…” It hurts to think about—Leo and Zach, Sarah and David. They were— _are_ —good people, and he would protect them if he could. “My friend Curtis. I don’t know if he made it through. I hope so. And if I know Dinah Madani, she’s probably running Homeland right now.” He clears his throat. “My parents—well. They had me when they were pretty old, so they passed on years ago. What about your family?”

She doesn’t answer right away. “Mom died from cancer a while back. When I was nineteen, Dad—well, he disowned me after my little brother got killed in a car accident.”

Another piece of the puzzle that is Karen Page slides into place. He remembers her panic just after the crash, the way she froze in place, eyes wide with terror. He never saw her truly freeze before, not until she was hanging upside down in a broken van. It makes sense if her brother died in an accident. 

He opens his mouth to say something, even if he’s not sure what, but she continues.

“I was driving,” she says.

 _Fuck._ His breath snags in his throat. “Karen—”

“You deserve to know. If you’re going to stay with me through all of this—you need to know. I was high. It was my fault.” She speaks the words as if she is pulling them from the deepest, most painful parts of herself. And he knows— _he just knows_ —that she’s never told anyone else this. “I’d been with my boyfriend. We were—fuck, we were so out of it. My boyfriend dealt drugs, and my brother didn’t want me going down that road, so he set fire to my boyfriend’s trailer.” She presses her fingers to her trembling mouth. “God. He was my little brother and I was supposed to protect him, not the other way around. My boyfriend beat him with a tire iron, so I grabbed the gun from his truck. Shot him in the shoulder and tried to drive my brother away. We—didn’t get far.”

She goes silent, then looks at him—a confessor awaiting judgement. There are tears on her face.

Frank bites down on a curse, because he knows it won’t do any good. People build themselves on foundations: family, beliefs, friends. Frank Castle—the man he was before—was a soldier, a dad, a husband, and he hoped a decent person. He was the kind of guy who’d help a neighbor change a tire and would lay down his life for a fellow soldier. After—after he woke up in the hospital with a bullet hole in his skull, those foundations were gone. All that was left was pain and loss, and the burning need to make those men that took his family feel what he did every single day.

Karen’s foundations have always seemed simple: she wants justice for those who no one else would fight for. But this is her truth, her foundation. She seeks justice for others because she believes her brother never got it. And some unconscious part of her probably wants to pay for that death with her own.

“You made a mistake,” he says. “Doesn’t define you.”

“Doesn’t it?” Her eyes are focused on something he can’t see. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve been paying for it ever since. Everywhere I go, death follows, but it never touches me. Feels like the universe is trying to fix its mistake.”

He doesn’t know how to tell her that none of that matters—not to him. He is the man that has courted death since that day in the park, but death will never take him. He’s never been that lucky. And besides, the entire notion that she’s a magnet for death is bullshit. Death doesn’t follow people—life does. And life is fucked up. But there are moments—

_The soft chiffon of her blouse as she pulls him close. The smell of the river water on the air, his mouth a whisper at her cheek. Blood and shrapnel—but at the center of it all, the stark blue of her eyes._

—There are moments when all he wants to do is _live_.

He doesn’t know how to tell her any of that, so he doesn’t. Rather, he decides that one secret deserves another.

“I executed an innocent man.” Which is probably not the best comforting line he’s ever uttered aloud.

She flinches, her eyes raking across his face. “What?”

“Kandahar,” he says heavily. “You wanted to know, yeah? That night I dragged Schoonover into the woods, you kept asking. Turned out he and a CIA agent had gone rogue. They were smuggling drugs out of the middle east. My team and I were their personal hitmen. They told us Congress had signed off on everything—but that wasn’t true. We did… we did things in the dark that no one should do. And when an honest man tried to investigate what our superiors were doing, they had us bring him in. Told us that he had intelligence we needed. We tortured him—and I was the one to put a bullet in him.” Of all the regrets that follow him, this is among the most painful. “A bullet I later dug out at the orders of my CO, because we couldn’t have any evidence linking his death to us. And only one man in my unit had the decency to question our superiors. Wasn’t me, in case you were wondering. No, it’s the man whose cabin we’re heading to. He went off the grid because he knew they’d hunt him. Me, I went back to my family and put targets on everyone I loved.”

She shakes her head. “Frank, that’s different. You were lied to.”

“And you were a kid. Everyone fucks up at nineteen.” He reaches for her hands, covers both with one of his. She has a writer’s hands—small calluses where her fingers rest on a keyboard. “You spent how many weeks trying to argue on my behalf during that shitshow of a trial. You dug in deep because you thought there was something in me worth fighting for. That’s what you do—you fight for the people everyone else gives up on.” He squeezes her hand—more to make a point than to comfort. “So don’t you dare say that your being alive is a mistake, Karen. Don’t you ever say that.”

Her hand moves against his, thumb rubbing against his knuckles. It feels far better than a simple touch has any right to.

She closes her eyes, squeezes them shut. Quakes for a few seconds, as if she cannot quite hold back a few silent sobs. Then she’s rubbing at her eyes and trying to force everything back. He knows that feeling, knows it too well. She’s probably been fighting this back since she realized the van was crashing. 

“That night,” he says, and a horrible realization settles in his belly.

He remembers the scent of trees, the burn of tires on pavement, the sight of Karen’s bleeding forehead and her arms wrapped so tightly around herself that it looked as though she were trying to keep herself from falling apart.

“What?” She dries her eyes on her sleeve, and already she sounds more composed.

“That night,” he says, and the memory is a sharp ache behind his ribs. “With Schoonover—I hit you with the truck. I mean, I made sure I hit his side, but still—”

She probably hadn’t been in a car crash since that night with her brother. He resurrected those memories, made her relive them, and then left her alone in that forest.

He doesn’t regret killing Schoonover. That man was a parasite, the worst kind of traitor. But he does regret what it might have cost her.

It takes only a few seconds for her catch on; understanding draws a tight frown across her forehead, and she looks at her hands. “He had a gun on me, you know. Trust me, I’d much rather have a few cuts and bruises than be buried out in the woods.”

“And yet,” he says, “you still asked me to spare him.”

“That wasn’t for his sake,” she says.

Her gaze meets his. He has always liked her eyes—not for their deep blue, but for how she doesn’t look away. People who know what he’s done—they flinch from meeting his gaze, but Karen Page holds it. It’s the first thing he noticed about her—even Daredevil stayed behind the red tape of his hospital room, and the other attorney lurked by the door, but the young woman stepped across without fear or hesitation, her eyes fixed on his.

Back then, she was a stranger holding a picture of his family.

Now—now, it feels like she’s the only family he has left.

“Get some sleep, Karen,” he says.

In this half-moon light, she is a pale silhouette that looks more ghost than human. She has haunted his thoughts long enough.

“I don’t know if I can,” she says. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m in that car again.” It sounds like the admission costs her something, a fraction of her pride.

Perhaps because it’s because she sounds so tired, because bruises are evident along her neck and collarbone, because he can’t close his eyes without seeing that gun against her, but Frank does something that is probably unwise. He reaches out, wraps one arm around her, and pulls her close. She tenses for a moment, then she begins to relax against him, her face turned into the hollow of his shoulder. She smells of shampoo and clean laundry and her hair is soft against his fingers. He thinks she might pull away after a few moments, like those times she hugged him, but rather, she reaches out and tucks the duvet around them both.

He waits for her to fall asleep before closing his own eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a slower chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it! Biggest of hugs to all of my readers/commenters. ❤


	5. Chapter 5

Karen Page considers herself a good investigative reporter.

She’s smart and she’s stubborn and she has a tendency to look into leads that other writers might leave alone—it’s why she liked her job at the Bulletin, what drew her to journalism. She has a burning need to know, to dig, and it’s what made her to break into Frank’s home all those months ago. She remembers going through his medical files, looking at crime scene photos, reading old news articles. She knows his birthdate and his rank, his children’s favorite toys and the way he takes his coffee.

But of all the things she knows of Frank Castle, she never expected this.

He is a _cuddler._

She goes to sleep with his arm around her and it’s nice. He’s warm and solid and the contact helps banish the sensation of falling, of the world shattering all around her. The weight of him is a comfort and a reminder—she’s not alone. When she wakes, with sunshine warm across the white duvet, she expects him to be up. He’ll be patrolling the inn or fashioning a battle tank out of spare parts in the garage or cleaning their guns. But when she opens her eyes, he’s still there. And more than that, he’s pulled her even closer, her face turned into his shoulder. All she can see is his neck and the place where his collarbone vanishes into his shirt. One of his hands is in her hair, and the other is loosely wrapped in the blanket. His chest rises and falls, even and slow, and the slight rasp in his breath almost soothes her back into sleep. She can’t remember the last time someone just held her—and perhaps that’s why she’s so reluctant to draw away.

No, that’s a lie. One that she’s uttered to herself far too many times. She doesn’t enjoy this simply for the physical contact, the warmth or the closeness.

It’s _Frank._

She is self-aware enough to realize it’s been him for a while—even if she can’t quite pinpoint when things shifted. There has always been a sort of understanding between them, an acknowledgement. It deepened into caring for him, and then—this. This bone-deep ache that makes her want to pull him closer and pull away for fear of becoming too tangled up in her own wants. She loves him, but he isn’t hers.

He cares what happens to her. She isn’t stupid; she knows that much. He has taken bullets for her, chased down a suicide bomber, and came to get her when the world crumbled. He listened to her sins and didn’t once judge her. If anything, he seemed angry that she would judge herself. He has taken on the role of friend and partner in survival.

But more than that? She doesn’t know.

And the last thing she wants is to push too much—and hurt him.

She carefully extricates herself from Frank’s grasp. He goes with a slight grumble, but doesn’t rouse. His face is slack with sleep, mouth soft and hair a little rumpled. Karen wraps a robe around herself and walks barefoot down the wooden stairs. The floor is cool but not uncomfortably so.

A bit of poking about the kitchen has her smiling. The stove is gas, which means all she needs is a lighter and a kettle to boil water. There’s a veritable treasure trove in the cupboard, one she suspects Frank hasn’t found because if he had, the smell of coffee would have wafted through the halls. There’s no cream, but it’s unneeded.

Carrying a steaming mug in each hand, she returns to the bedroom. Frank is still asleep, but when her foot hits a creak in the floor, his hand jerks. His fingers slide across the duvet, as if searching. Then his eyes flash open and he sits up. His sleep-smudged gaze flies across the room and lands on her.

“Hey,” she says. “Good morning.”

A bit of tension leaves his shoulders. “‘Morning.” His eyes seem to sharpen. “What’s that?”

“Coffee.” She says, just a bit giddy with excitement. “I found it in the kitchen.”

He looks a little disbelieving, as if he expects to wake up at any moment. She sits on the edge of the bed and holds out one of the mugs. His larger hand covers hers when he takes it, and then he’s blowing steam from the top and taking a sip. When he tastes the coffee, he makes a noise that is just this side of obscene. “Oh _God_. Page, you are amazing.”

The compliment is probably the result of exhaustion and a deep-seated caffeine addiction, but it still makes her grin. “There’s more in the cupboard.” She settles into the bed, her back to the headboard. “We can take some with us.”

It’s strangely domestic to sit side by side, drinking coffee in the morning. And Karen feels buoyant—perhaps it’s because he knows. Not everything, but he knows enough. He knows the worst parts of her, and he hasn’t turned away. It feels like a weight has been lifted from her.

“How’s your back? Neck?” he asks.

“Stiff,” she admits. “How’s your hand?”

He flexes his fingers. “Healing. Head wound?”

She touches the place above her ear; she can feel the scab. “Crusty.” She lets out a small laugh. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”

“We’re alive,” he replies.

“I’ll drink to that,” she says, taking another sip of her coffee. “What’s the plan?”

He considers for a few moments. “Rest, first off. Won’t do a damned bit of good to work ourselves into the ground. Take inventory of what we still have. See what’s here—and decide what to take. Doubt the owners will be back.”

“So this is our life now?” she asks. The last of her coffee tastes a little bitter. “Going from place to place, scavenging what we can?”

Again, he takes a few moments before answering. “When we reach the cabin, we’ll have a place to settle. I’ve been thinking about it—I don’t know jack about hunting, but I figure deer can’t be all that different from… uh—”

“People?” she says.

He grimaces. “Sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“It’s probably true, though.” She runs her fingernail along the rim of the mug. The sun-warmed sheets feel good against her bare toes. “But as far as hunting goes, I know the basics. Haven’t skinned something myself, but I’ve seen it done.”

He shoots her a startled look. She shrugs.

“Rural small town girl, remember?” she says. “We’d get hunters in for the season. Some had cabins, some rented motel rooms. My dad was never into it, but a few of my uncles were. They’d take my brother on a few trips, but not me—even though I was a better shot.”

He shakes his head. “You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“I can also run a diner,” she says, smiling. “Doubt that skill will come in handy, though.”

“Once we get to the cabin, we can hunt,” he says. “Plant a garden. Fix up the place. Make it—well, maybe not exactly what we’re used to, but—”

“A home,” she says. And she hates the way she sounds so wistful. She’s lived in many places, but home has been an elusive thing. Her apartments were fine, but they were never hers. Never more than a place to store her things and sleep. Even her last place, bigger and more comfortable, never felt like a home. She wanted home to consist of more than one person, more than a beer and her laptop while she browses the news.

“Yeah,” says Frank quietly. Then mutters, almost to himself, “Or at least, a place that’s a little more defensible.”

That makes her laugh—because she’s imaging him digging trenches and setting up trip wires and God, he’s probably going to do those exact things and she loves him for it.

The corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile, even if his mouth remains a line. “Laugh it up, Page,” he says. “But when some asshole decides to start their own city-state out of South Carolina or some shit like that, you’ll be glad we can defend ourselves.”

“Paranoia later,” she says. “Another cup of coffee now?”

“God, yes.”

* * *

They take things slow. Karen can’t lift her arms too high without pain and Frank is doing most things left-handed. They’re healing and still worn out, but the coffee has done wonders for Frank’s mood. And the soft bed and shower make Karen feel human again. She even brushes her hair into a sleek braid, wrapping it around her head, before going to help dig through the back of the truck.

If they’re going to survive on their own, they’re going to need fresh water and food. Which means they need ways to purify water and make their own food. Frank knows how to rig up a system to catch rainwater, and purifying the creek nearby will take iodine and boiling. They have a limited amount of fuel, so that’s the first thing Karen looks for. She finds an abandoned car in the garage, and she drains the gasoline into a canister. There are also gardening supplies in a shed, along with a few packets of seeds. It looks as if the inn used to have a small greenhouse, and Karen delights in the sights of gloves and shovels. She’s never garden before—all she knows of plants, she learned from a potted rose on her windowsill—but she wants to learn.

As she is hauling the supplies out of the shed, she hears Frank coming down the gravel drive. “I found some spare medicine in the office,” he calls. “Not sure what half of it is, and no internet to look it up, but I figure we’ll take some with us. Might as well—”

His voice cuts off abruptly and she looks up.

Frank has been carrying a shotgun around the grounds—probably a bit much, but she won’t argue after what they’ve been through. Now, Frank half-raises the gun. “Karen, step away from the shed.” He’s moving toward her, eyes sharp and posture one of alertness, but not fear.

She hears it, then. A low snarl.

Her fingers tighten on the shovel, the worn wood soft against her palm. It could make a decent weapon, if she has time to swing it.

Then she sees what Frank does—about ten feet away from her, pressed low in the tall grasses, is a large dog.

It must be a mutt of some kind—one crooked ear and bright blue eyes. Karen takes a step forward, but Frank seizes her arm.

“Don’t,” he says sharply.

The dog lowers its head, lips flickering away from its teeth. Karen takes a half-step back in surprise. “Feral?”

“Could be,” he says, eyes on the animal. “Could’ve belonged to someone—but anything that can live without its owners for this long will know how to hunt.”

The animal takes one step toward them; its hackles are up. Frank raises the shotgun to his shoulder.

“Frank,” she says.

“If it’s rabid,” he begins to reply, but she points a finger at the dog.

“Look at its stomach.” She can almost see Frank sighting down the gun’s barrel, until he sees what she does: the dog is nursing. “She’s not rabid, she’s protecting a litter.”

“Shit.” The word jerks out of him. “Walk back slowly. Don’t run, don’t turn around.”

She does so—lifting one foot and then the other. She imagines a litter of puppies left defenseless somewhere nearby and it hurts. There’s been enough death already. Silently, she begs the dog not to attack. 

Frank keeps the gun trained on the dog as they retreat toward the door. The dog follows at about twenty feet, a low growl emanating from her chest. Finally, Karen’s fingers touch the doorknob and she twists it open. She goes in first, then Frank follows, shutting the door behind them. The dog watches for a few moments, tail stiff, but when it’s clear the threat is gone, she turns and trots away. Karen observes through a window. “She’s heading back for that shed. I wonder if—”

“No,” says Frank.

“—If the puppies—”

“No.”

“I mean—”

“No.”

She gives him a sour look. He’s _smiling_ , the bastard. “You forget,” he says, “I’ve done this before.”

She tries to imagine Frank trying to drag his kids away from a pet store; the mental image makes her heart twist. “Your family never had a dog?” she asks.

He shrugs, leans against the door. She’s glad to see the question doesn’t seem to faze him; rather, his face softens. “Lisa wanted a lizard.”

“No.”

“Yeah. She had a thing for reptiles. Dinosaurs when she was little, snakes and lizards when she got older. She kept trying to talk us into letting her have a garden snake or a gecko.” He shakes his head a little. “Frankie would beg for a dog, but Maria never thought he was old enough to deal with one on his own. Said she’d be the one taking if for walks and feeding it, and having two kids on her own for months at a time…” Some of the wistfulness drains away, his expression hollowing out.

“We had a dog growing up,” Karen says. “He was some kind of terrier mutt—loved fetch and hanging out under the dining room table, in case people would drop something. He loved Kevin and Mom. He was less fond of me, because I tried to ride him when I was young.”

“You didn’t.”

“Well, one of my friends had a pony,” she says, with a shrug. “Five-year-old me thought a dog could serve the same purpose.” She lets her fingertips rest on the cool glass of the window. “Maybe—”

“We are not going to look for the puppies.”

“A dog could be useful,” she points out. “Guard dog, hunting, all of that.”

“Tell me,” he says, with a faint crease of his lips, “could you take just one?”

She thinks about it. Then frowns.

“Exactly,” he says. “We don’t have the means to care for more than one. Or even one, if I’m being honest.”

She sighs. “We’ll keep an eye out, all right?”

“All right.”

For the rest of the day, she stays alert for signs of the dog. But it never reappears.

* * *

That night they eat a lentil soup in the kitchen and unearth a few bottles of red wine from the cellar. They take the wine back to the bedroom, and a few glasses in, they somehow fall into a discussion about _Watership Down_. “—Don’t get it,” Frank is saying. “That’s the only unrealistic part.”

“We’re talking about a book with sentient rabbits,” replies Karen. The wine is a pleasant heat in her belly. “And you’re nitpicking the realism?”

“The rabbits have a society,” he says. “They’ve got an army, a structure, even a language. I mean, that I get. But then why is one of the rabbits a goddamn psychic? How?”

“Again,” says Karen. “ _Talking rabbits_. It’s fantasy—you go with it. Also, it’s for kids.”

“Which I still think is screwed up. That account of the warren being gassed was fucking graphic. How is an entire generation of kids not traumatized?”

She takes another drink of her wine. There’s a pleasant hum in her veins and she feels good—not drunk, but relaxed for the first time in days. Frank’s posture has loosened, and he has an adorable intensity to him when he’s a little tipsy. She says, “When I was a kid, I didn’t really get a lot of the violence. Only when I was older did I really understand what it all meant.” She bites down on the edge of her thumbnail, trying to suppress a smile. “I think it’s only as adults we realize how scary the world actually is. Until then… it’s all just a story. And if you think the book is bad, don’t watch the film edition from the seventies. It’s a trippy nightmare. The animation…” She shudders.

Frank looks vaguely concerned. “You watched it as a kid, didn’t you?”

“Gave me nightmares for a year.”

“I can see why you’d be into this book, though,” he says, with the kind of earnestness that only accompanies a few glasses of wine.

“Because I look like the type to enjoy terrifying rabbits?”

“Because it’s about carving your own path.” He gestures at the book. “You leave your home, find your own way, and you try to keep others along the way safe. You’re that one rabbit—Hazel. The leader rabbit, who figures out the boats and shit and keeps the others in line.”

She snorts so hard that her throat burns. “I’m Hazel? No—no. I just—I’m only alive because you got me out of the city.”

“You’d have survived,” he says. “You’d have probably banded together with some others, formed a party, and conquered Hell’s Kitchen for yourself. You’d be sitting on some council or shit like that, running an apartment building where everyone contributes food or labor and everyone stays safe. It would have been Karen’s Kitchen or something like that.”

“And what would you be doing in this hypothetical scenario?”

“Probably sitting on a nearby rooftop with a sniper rifle to make sure no one tried to invade.”

She shakes her head. Of all the discussions they’ve had, this is has to be the strangest. “Fine. If I’m Hazel, you’re Bigwig.”

He squints. “What?”

“The ex-military rabbit,” she says. “Right-hand man. Loyal, smart enough to leave the warren before things went to hell. Can kick anyone’s ass, but only fights when he has to. Also, you both have floppy hair.”

“I don’t have _floppy hair_.”

“It is getting a little long.” She reaches over, tugs at a stray strand just above his eyes. It’s still shorter on the sides, but the hair atop his head is beginning to curl at the edges.

“It’s hard to get a haircut after the end of the world.”

His hair soft beneath her fingertips. She finds herself stroking those strands between thumb and forefinger, and only realizes what she’s doing when the silence has gone on a little too long. Her hand jerks away. And abruptly, she realizes how close they are.

They’re in bed together. Upright, but still. Wine glasses on the table, a book at their feet. His thigh is pressed to hers.

She wants this to be more than what it is. She doesn’t know how to stop wanting, but she should.

“Maybe we’ll find some other books in a guest room,” she says, voice forcibly light. “Something more to your taste.”

“Hey,” says Frank, as she sits up. She can’t read his face—mostly because she won’t look at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

His voice sharpens a little. “Don’t do that.”

She forces herself to look at him. “What?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely at her. “Don’t—fuck, don’t shut me out. If I said something—dammit. Whatever I did—”

 _Shit._ Of course he would think he did something wrong. “No, Frank. It’s nothing you did.” She takes a breath, then another. “I—I just—”

“What?” He leans closer, face intent.

He’s so close; she can smell the inn’s shampoo on him, feel the warmth through his cotton shirt. She thinks back to their conversation of a few moments ago.

“Why?” she finally says.

“Why, what?”

“That first day—when everyone started dying. Why’d you come for me?” She isn’t sure why she wants to know, but she does. It feels important. “If you think I could survive the end of the world, why’d you go to such lengths to get me out of New York?”

There’s a few moments of quiet. She can barely breathe; her lungs are tight, heart throbbing with fear, and she hates herself a little for asking. She should have just stayed quiet, kept things normal between them.

He meets her eyes. And she waits for his answer, because they’re honest with one another, even when it hurts. “You know why.”

“I don’t—” The words don’t come easily. “Frank, don’t make me guess.”

His hand comes up, traces her jaw with such tenderness that it stops her breathing for a moment. His touch lingers just beneath her chin, on the soft underside of her jaw. Such a vulnerable place—and she offers it willingly to him. “Because you were the first person I thought of,” he says quietly. “When I realized New York was under attack, my only thought was, _I have to get to Karen out_. Because you’re still the first person I think of when I’m lonely or when I just want to talk to someone. And I know that’s not fair, putting all that on you. I tried, Karen, I really did. I thought you’d be better off without me. But I can't—”

He looks pained, as if this little speech tore something inside of him.

And perhaps it’s his words or the wine, but she feels brave enough to put her hand on his chest, just above his heart. The cotton of his shirt is smooth beneath her hands, and she finds herself looking there instead of his eyes.

His thumb strokes the hollow beneath her lower lip. His fingers are creased with old scars and calluses, but he’s so careful. And it’s that tenderness that breaks down the last of her willpower.

Her fingers knot in his shirt and she is the one to close the distance between them. For the briefest moment, his mouth is unyielding against hers; he’s so tense that a thrill of panic goes through her and she begins to pull back, but Frank shivers and then he’s kissing her _hard_. It’s as if every pent-up emotion between them is brought swirling to the surface, every touch fraught with fear and longing. They’re both terrified, and she can taste it in the kiss—sharp and bright, bitten-off gasps and fingers tight enough to bruise. It’s so intense that it almost makes her want to hide, to pull herself away and try to armor her emotions against this kind of vulnerability. But here’s the thing—she doesn’t have to. Not with him. She knows he’d never use them against her.

She falls back into the bed and he goes with her, and God, it’s like every fantasy she’s tried to push away. It’s half-remembered dreams and longing, the sensation of his body pressed to hers and the taste of him and his hand down her ribs—and then his fingers hit a sore spot just above her hip.

A flare of pain goes through her and she gasps. Frank pulls back instantly. “What’s wrong?”

She winces, touches her ribcage. “It’s just bruised where the seatbelt caught me.”

“Shit.” The curse comes out on an exhalation. He rolls off of her. “Got carried away.”

“Frank, it’s fine,” she says, sitting up.

He shakes his head. “We’re not—not doing this while we’re both injured.”

She lets out a small, dry laugh. Because they’re living after the fall of society, on the run, and she’s Karen Page and he’s Frank Castle. They’re probably going to be dealing with injuries and exhaustion for the foreseeable future.

Frank seems to understand her laugh. But his face is set. She knows that expression—it’s a brick wall. “Not while you’re injured, then.”

“ _Frank_.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says, with such finality that she can’t argue; she does understand. The thought of causing him pain makes her feel ill.

“Can I touch you, then?” she says, rolling onto her side. A flicker of apprehension seems to cross his face, gone so quickly that she’s not entire sure it was there.

“Yeah, of course,” he replies quietly. As if he’s not entirely sure what to expect.

She runs her fingertips through his hair, down his neck. He shivers, pupils wide and breath a little unsteady. She traces the sharp line of his jaw, up to his cheekbone, then her hand stays there. His breath is warm against her wrist; he holds himself still but he leans into her palm, and that’s all the answer she needs.

This time, the kiss is less frantic. There’s more tenderness and less fear. His breath mingles with hers, slows into something calm and comforting.

 _I’m here_ , Karen wants to say. _I’m here, I’m here. We’re both here._ It seems important, somehow, to acknowledge that they’re together in this.

* * *

They leave in the morning, when the trees are shrouded in mist and the smell of rainfall is heavy on the air.

They bring what supplies they might need to the truck, tying them down with rope and bungee cords. Karen stands by the passenger side when they’re finished. She gazes at the abandoned building and the forest and wonders if they’ll ever find a place so peaceful again. Frank is working on securing two canisters of gas when movement catches Karen’s eye.

She goes still. Something moves along the side of the far building—a smudge of darkness that takes her a few moments to blink into focus.

It’s the dog. The nursing mother who growled at them. She is walking alongside the building, head low to the ground. Something moves about her feet.

“Frank,” Karen says softly. She senses more than sees him freeze. But she didn’t call his name because she’s afraid—no, she did so because she wants him to see.

Puppies. There are puppies. At least three of them—healthy, round little things stumbling about their mother with clumsy enthusiasm. One of them is tugging at her tail and another is barking at the fallen leaves like they’re enemies to be conquered. The barks are high-picked squeaks and it makes far cuter than any internet video she’s passed around the office. Mostly because this is real, unscripted.

Frank comes to stand beside her. Together, they watch as the mother dog leads her little family around the building and into the forest.

“Life finds a way,” Frank says.

Karen shakes her head, smiling. “Did you just quote Jurassic Park?”

“Like I said,” he replies, “Lisa was really into dinosaurs for a while.”

They stand in companionable silence for a few more moments, catching the last glimpses of the dogs.

“Keep moving?” Karen asks.

Frank squares his shoulders; his gaze sharpens and swings toward the road. “We keep moving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I’d be writing a Punisher fic in which a discussion of a childhood book leads into a kiss... but here we are. As always, thank you so much for all the comments. You are the best readers and I love you all.


	6. Chapter 6

They drive northwest, skirting between Pennsylvania towns.

Karen thinks they should have gone farther by now—but their route is all backroads and a careful avoidance of cities. The ambush cost them some travel time, and the recovery even longer. She isn’t sure why this matters to her—they aren’t on a schedule, like Frank said. But there’s some deep-seated need to find where they’re going, to land some place she can finally let her guard down. She wants to feel safe again, even if she’s not sure that’s possible.

Frank drives. He volunteered and she let him, because the idea of driving makes her feel a little sick. She’s going to have to get over that—but later. For now, she sits in the passenger seat and thumbs through the truck’s inherited music collection. It’s _terrible_.

“Country rock of the nineties,” she says. “I think dying in the attack might have been a mercy.”

Frank grunts and it sounds like agreement. “We could put in some of that classical we found at the inn.”

They end up listening to violins and piano. It’s nothing she thought Frank would ever like, but he seems content. His fingers are relaxed on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road.

She can’t look at him without remembering the weight of his body on hers. Or the fraught tension of that first kiss, followed by the gentleness of the second. She kissed Frank Castle last night, and it feels like everything has shifted. The normalcy of picking out music and being on the road is almost a relief.

In hindsight, she should have turned on the radio.

They haven’t seen many people on the road.

So when everyone vanishes, neither Karen nor Frank notice at first.

* * *

They’re talking about the best spots to eat in Hell’s Kitchen—hole in the wall places that no tourist would ever know about. It took Karen a few years to truly settle into the city, so Frank knows more of them than her. They compare notes on a few breakfast spots, then talk about their favorite bars. She talks about Josie’s—and that seems to startle him. “You hung out at that shithole?” he says.

“It was Matt’s favorite place! And you obviously know about it, so you had to have gone at least once.”

“Once. To track down a mark. Who had been kicked out of every other bar and had no other place to drink. I can’t believe Murdock took you to that dump. I mean, I can see him and the short one going there—but you?”

“What? Do you think I’m the kind of snob who only hangs out at fancy breweries or something?”

Frank snorts. “I mean, why would he take you to a place that had algae in the water? Was giving his dates food poisoning a popular move?”

Now she’s laughing openly. “God. There _was_ algae, wasn’t there? And no, Matt never took me to Josie’s on a date. We had one date. Well, maybe one and a half.”

He squints at the road. “Okay, it’s been a long while since I dated. But what counts as _half_ a date? Do I want to know?”

“We met up at his place to go over notes on your court case.”

“How romantic. Pictures of bodies.” He looks torn between amused and worried. “Just meeting up at someone’s place? That’s considered a date these days?”

“There was beer.”

“All right, then.” He shakes his head. “I was always kinda shit at the whole dating thing. Small talk—not really my style.”

“All right, so how did you meet Maria?”

He looks embarrassed. “I was—young.”

Now she has to know. “Tell me, Frank.”

“Really?”

“I won’t laugh, I promise.”

“I was playing guitar. In public.” His mouth twitches. “And singing. Or, attempting to. I drove off a flock of pigeons an old lady was trying to feed. There was this new song I was trying to get right.”

Karen breaks into giggles.

“So much for not laughing,” he says, but he’s smiling, too.

“I didn’t know you were musical. How long have you played guitar?”

“I wouldn’t call what I did ‘playing,’ exactly. Maria only agreed to go out on a date with me if I’d stop.” He sighs. “Wonder if I could get my hands on a guitar. It’s been a while—but it might be nice to pick it up again.”

“Sitting around the campfire, playing guitar. It’s like a summer camp cli— _FRANK_!” Her hand comes up just as he slams the brakes. Her neck screams at her as the truck shudders to a halt, skidding just a little across the pavement. The air smells of burnt rubber and all Karen can hear is her own breathing as she thinks, _Not again, not again, oh God, please—_

They’re upright. The truck is still, the engine rumbling. Frank’s arm is pressed to her, holding her as if he doesn’t trust the seatbelt to do its job. The other has a tight grasp on the steering wheel; his chest rises and falls, eyes fixed on the thing she saw just a moment ago. Something large in the middle of the road.

It’s a deer. And while that shouldn’t be a surprise—they on a road surrounded by forest—the deer doesn’t react the way she’d expect it do. It doesn’t turn and flee at the sight of the truck. It merely stands there, in the center of the road, gazing into the distance. If Frank hadn’t hit the brakes, they’d have crashed into it.

“You okay?” he says, breathless. He takes his eyes off the road to look at her, gaze darting over her face. His arm lingers for a moment until he’s sure she’s fine, then his hand finds hers. She squeezes tight, heart still throbbing.

“Yeah.” She’s shaking, but she’s fine. It’s just adrenaline. “Fuck. Just a deer?”

“Just a fucking deer,” he agrees. He sounds as winded as she feels.

The deer looks at them. Karen breathes hard, waiting for it to turn and run, but the creature doesn’t move.

Frank hits the horn.

The deer stumbles, staggers. “Did we hit it?” asks Karen, concerned.

Frank shakes his head, his eyes on the animal. It is trying to walk off the road but it looks… drunk, for lack of a better term. It keeps weaving and stumbling, and it’s pitiful to watch. When it gets to the side of the road, its hooves clatter on the gravel shoulder and it skids downward, falls to its side, and doesn’t rise.

“—The fuck,” Frank mutters.

Karen’s gaze sweeps across the forest. “I don’t see any others. We’re probably fine.”

Frank’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. He puts the truck back in drive and they continue on at a more careful pace. All of their levity seems to have drained away, leaving a tension in its wake. Karen watches everything, her nerves jangling. Frank is just as alert; his eyes are fixed on the road.

They don’t pass any cars—at least, none that are moving. There are a couple of abandoned sedans. Frank gets out to siphon a bit of gas from one, but other than that, they don’t stop.

The land feels strangely still and quiet. For all that they’re driving through a combination of small towns and forests, they’re not far from larger cities. Scranton is to the north, Allentown to the south. There should be some people still here, even if half were killed. But they have seen no one since the early morning.

They pass through a small town called Glen Lyon. The windows are dark; the cars are unmoving. And while they’ve seen this kind of thing before, something about the sight makes Karen’s stomach twist in on itself. She knows this instinct and she’s learned to trust it.

“Something’s off,” she says.

“Yeah.” Frank leans a little farther over the steering wheel, peering at the buildings. “Don’t see any movement. Maybe this place has been evacuated like parts of New York were. People brought to government camps.”

“Maybe,” she says.

There’s another cluster of buildings up ahead, and this time, Frank pulls off the road. “Pharmacy,” he says, nodding at the sign. “We should stop here, see if everything hasn’t been scavenged yet. Look for antibiotics, bandages, anything else we might not be able to get our hands on otherwise.”

Karen nods and unbuckles her seatbelt.

Again, there’s no sign of people, and while that should be reassuring, it’s not. Not at all. It feels as though they’re the last two people on earth.

Frank breaks into the pharmacy with a crowbar. It’s less than subtle, but she doubts there’s anyone around to arrest them. He uses a gloved hand to unlock the door and step inside. Karen stays by the car, her gun resting on the truck’s seat. She walks a little, pacing a few strides down the main street. She turns in a circle, trying to imagine this place as it must have once been: a cute little town, bustling with people.

When she turns to her left, she sees the plume for the first time. Smoke twines into the sky.

“Forest fire?” she calls. That would explain why the air has a strangely metallic tang to it, and perhaps why that deer ran.

Frank comes out of the shop, bag in hand. It’s bulging with bottles. He frowns. “Wrong season for it. We just had rain.”

He sees the smoke and his head tilts slightly. Like a hound with a scent. And if anything, he looks more unsettled.

He shifts in place for a moment, then goes to the back of the truck. He digs through their things and comes up with that familiar crank radio. He twists it to life, and fuzz crackles through the speakers.

“You think maybe someone’s set up an alert about the fire?” she asks.

“If we have any kind of functioning government,” he says, “or even a do-gooder with a good radio rig, then maybe—”

Something cuts through the static—a recording. It takes Frank a few seconds, but finally the words are audible.

“—SUSQUEHANNA—REPEAT. EVACUATE. REPEAT. ALL OCCUPANTS OF LUZERNE COUNTY ARE TO EVACUATE THE AREA IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. REPEAT THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALL OCCUPANTS ARE TO EVACUATE AND REPORT TO A GOVERNMENT FACILITY FOR DECONTAMINATION. THESE ARE LOCATED AT—“

“Fuck,” Frank snarls. His face has gone utterly bloodless. “ _God fucking dammit_.” The bag of drops from his hand, and bottles go rolling across the pavement. Karen reaches for them without thinking, but Frank seizes Karen’s shoulder and half-guides, half-drags her toward the truck. It takes her feet a moment to catch up, and then they’re moving. He yanks the door open with an impatient grunt and all but dumps her inside. Then he’s around the truck in a flash, twisting the key in the ignition.

Karen says, “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer—rather, he leans across the seat and begins unzipping her jacket. “Frank—what the hell?”

“Take it off,” he says. “Your pants, too. Shoes—throw them out the window. Your undershirt should be fine, it wasn’t exposed to the air.”

His tone is deadly serious and it frightens away any reply. She does as he asks, pulling off her outer layer of clothes and throwing them—shoes and all—out the window. She’s left sitting there in a t-shirt and panties and socks, and she pulls the wool blanket around herself. Frank has yanked off his own jacket, but he’s left on the rest of his clothes.

She barely has time to snap her seatbelt into place before Frank yanks the truck into reverse. Karen’s neck protests the sudden movement.

He spins the car in a turn, heading north, then he guns the engine. The truck grumbles in response, but the town flies by in a rush.

“Talk to me,” Karen says, her voice thin with alarm.

He grunts in reply, eyes on the road. She reaches out to touch his shoulder and he flinches so hard the truck swerves a little. “Fuck—don’t!”

She pulls back at once.

“Don’t touch me,” he says. “Can’t—can’t risk it. You stayed in the car when I got that gas. You didn’t touch anything, right? And you were only outside for a few minutes. You’ll be okay.” He utters the words like they’re a prayer, not a statement.

“Frank.” Because now she’s well and truly terrified. “What did that warning mean?”

He forces himself to take a few breaths. The trees are a blur as he pushes the truck to its limits. They’re going far too quickly for this narrow road, but Karen doesn’t bring that up.

“Susquehanna,” he says.

“What?”

“Susquehanna,” he says again, then adds, “It’s a nuclear power plant.”

All of the breath judders out of her.

A nuclear power plant.

Before now she never considered—but then again, it makes sense. With half of the population simply gone, things have fallen apart.

“They have safety measures,” she says, mind racing. “I mean, they have to—if they were abandoned, surely—“

“Back-ups would kick in after the power was cut,” he says grimly. “But they only last so long. A few weeks at most—because normally, that’s all they’d need to fix things. But if no one came back, if further steps weren’t taken…” His lips move silently for a moment, and she realizes he’s counting. “Nearly three weeks. It’s been nearly three weeks since everything went to hell—that’s probably enough time to— fuck.” His eyes are a little wild. “If it melted down, that’s bad enough. It’ll fuck up the water nearby, and the soil. That shit’ll stay deadly for thousands of years. Make that place a death trap. But if something went—if something went  _really_ wrong. If it _burned_ …” His eyes are on the fog outside, and Karen goes abruptly cold.

Radiation exposure. That’s what he’s thinking. That’s why he doesn’t want her to touch him. Why she’s sitting in the truck seat wearing no pants, no shoes, and no jacket. Because all of those garments touched the open air.

Frank peers through the windshield. “Can’t tell the direction of the wind. Where the fallout lands—it’ll depend on the weather.”

“Jesus fuck,” Karen says, because she doesn’t know what else to say. All she can think of is that deer moving along the road, twitching and staggering. “How far could it go? Philadelphia? New York?”

Frank gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t know, honestly. We need—fuck, I need to think. We’re coming up on a river, yeah? Keep an eye out for a place to pull over.”

She’s glad for something to do; she begins peering through the window—and all the while, trying not to glance at the smoke plume in the rearview mirror.

They drive for about an hour, then Frank pulls over.

The truck rests on the gravel shoulder of the road, and she sees the nearby river. There’s a shallow little eddy, a place shielded by rocks and a few fallen trees.

“Get the rest of your clothes off,” Frank says curtly. “Throw them in a pile. Can’t wear them again. We need to scrub down. If any of that smoke was from the plant…” He digs into their packs and comes up with two washcloths they took from the inn. He tosses one to her. “Ears, eyelids, everything.”

She understands. Without a word, she begins pulling off her shirt, then her socks. A moment of hesitation, and then her sports bra and panties follow. She glances toward Frank; he’s shirtless and unlacing his combat boots.

A glance down at herself and she shivers. She is pale in the weak sunlight, and she’s keenly aware she hasn’t been near a razor in three weeks. Her legs are prickly with blonde hair and there are bruises all down her ribs where the seatbelt caught her. If she’s being honest with herself, she hoped the first time she’d be naked with him—would be under very different circumstances. She pushes the thought away.

She shivers when she steps into the river.

“Shit that’s cold,” she hisses, but forces herself to dip the washcloth into the water and rub at her arms first, then her chest, down her stomach, to her legs. She scrubs hard, until her skin is red and buzzing. The rocks are slick and sharp against her bare toes, and she glimpses a few small fish dart toward her and away. The place would be beautiful on a warmer day, and she can imagine coming here for a picnic.

She glances at Frank out of the corner of her eye; he’s kneeling in a deeper area of the river, head bowed as he shampoos his hair. His back is marked with countless scars, some red and puckered inward, others white and raised. His body is a monument to all the things that tried—and failed—to kill him. He has to be okay. He will be okay.

She returns to working on her legs, her feet, in between her toes, then up the backs of her calves. The water has begun to leech all of the warmth from her and she shivers so hard her back molars click together. It’s the kind of cold that sinks beneath the skin and itches before it numbs. She tries to work faster, when she hears splashing come up behind her. A glance and she sees Frank.

She makes a concentrated effort to keep her eyes on his face. His hair is soaked through but he’s not shivering. His own gaze is slightly averted; she realizes that he’s looking just past her left ear.

“Your back,” he says and gestures vaguely at her. “It’s hard to—I mean—”

She understands at once. “Yeah. Thanks.” She straightens her shoulders, pulls her hair out of the way, and turns so her back is to him. There’s the briefest of moments, an awareness that she’s utterly vulnerable and bare to him, and she’s shaking. His hand settles at the base of her neck, and his fingers are warm and slow.

“Hey, hey,” he says, so softly she can barely hear him over the lapping water. “I’ve got you.” It’s such a simple sentence, but he speaks it like a promise.

She believes him.

He takes the washcloth from her hand and places it between her shoulder blades. Every movement is quick, efficient, and that soothes her frayed mood. He scrubs any trace of dust or smoke from her back and neck, and then she does the same for him. His back is a wide expanse of muscle, and she sees his fingers twitching a little as she works. He is as keyed up as she is—and that makes her feel a little better. She does take a few moments to eye his ass as she works. It’s a good ass, and she smiles a little at that thought. It’s nice she can still take pleasure in the small things.

“You should wash your hair, too,” he says, and hands her a small shampoo bottle without looking at her. She recognizes it as one from the bed and breakfast. “No conditioner—it’ll make things worse.”

She grimaces at the thought of submerging herself in this frigid water, but she does it. The chill makes her gasp and quake uncontrollably, and her numb fingers are clumsy as she rinses her blonde strands clean.

When she’s finished, she stumbles out of the river, her arms wrapped around herself. She’s so cold she can’t speak. Frank walks toward her, his gaze still pointedly fixed away. He’s damp but dressed, and he carries a white fluffy towel in one hand. She takes it gratefully and begins rubbing herself dry. Once the towel is wrapped around her torso, she picks her way barefoot across the dirt to the truck and digs out her duffel bag. Luckily, Frank looted more than one pair of shoes for her. She pulls on clean clothing, laces the sneakers, then straightens. Frank is in the midst of wiping down the truck, taking extra care with the cabin and handles.

His hair is still damp and she can see the places where his sweatshirt clings to him, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. When he’s done, he glances up and sees her. “Fuck, you’re freezing, aren’t you? Come on, the truck should be okay.” Once they’re both inside, he reaches out and yanks the key in the ignition.

“W-waste of gas,” she says, teeth chattering.

He ignores her and cranks the heat to full. Then he takes her hands between his owns and tries to rub some warmth back into them.

“Gas,” she tries to say again, because they shouldn’t be using it for this. If they get stranded—

“Fuck it,” he says curtly. The interior of the truck begins to warm, fogging the windows with moisture.

Finally, the chill releases its grip on her. The constant shivering relents into the occasional shiver. And she finally manages to speak. “You—you okay?”

He rasps out a bitter laugh. “I just drove you into a radioactive wasteland and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

“Frank.” There’s gentle disapproval in her voice.

He sighs. “Yeah, I’m fine. Little stiff from the cold, but that’s it. No signs of radiation sickness.”

“What are the symptoms?”

“Bleeding,” he says. “From soft tissues—gums, etc. Diarrhea. Nausea. Vomiting. Fever. Weakness.”

“Okay.” Her mind is racing, trying to catalog everything she touched once she was out of the truck. How many breaths of that strangely metallic air did she take? She isn’t sure. “Okay.”

“We don’t know for sure that’s what happened,” he says. “The alert—it may have been a precaution. Depending on the wind, even if there was fallout, it could have gone someplace else. Odds are, we’re okay. We got out fast, washed everything off.” His breath is hot against her forehead. “You feeling all right?”

“Yeah.” She leans a little closer to him, trying to catch his eye. He won’t meet her gaze.

“We’ll need to figure out a new route south,” he says. “Avoid any place too close to power plants, cities, keep the radio going so we don’t miss any more damned alerts. Fuck, that was stupid of me—I got complacent.” He’s still rubbing at her hands, almost absentmindedly.

“Hey,” she says, wrapping her finger around his, stilling him. “We both didn’t think about it because I mean—why would we think about it? The world is—it was supposed to go on, with people and—” She stumbles over her own thoughts.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “It was.”

They remain quiet for a few minutes; she soaks in the warmth of the heater while he digs their map out of the glove compartment and begins making faint marks with a pencil. She lets him work; he needs something to do. He’s the kind of person that deals with catastrophe with planning and action, while she is the type to look inward. All she can think about are the names of those three Pennsylvania cities—all evacuated. She wonders how many people got out. And how many people didn’t.

“Hey,” he says, a little abruptly. “Back there—sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Didn’t mean to just start…uh, trying to strip you. I panicked a little. Toxic agents tend to hit women first.”

She gives him a very flat look. “This is going to piss me off, isn’t it?”

“Smaller body mass,” he says. “Thinner skin. If there was any radiation, you’d be feeling it before me.”

“How do you _know_ these things?”

A small shrug. “Curt,” he says, as if that’s an explanation. “He was a corpsman—used to read all of these medical papers even on his days off, because he wanted to save as many people as he could. I remember him talking about it. He used to put the men in the unit to sleep by reading those goddamn papers when we pissed him off.”

And sure, that’s probably part of it. But she knows him well enough to understand that Frank probably remembered those facts for the same reason—because they might save a life someday.

She says, “It’s fine. Back there, I mean. You’ve never made me uncomfortable, Frank.”

This time, he’s the one to give her an unamused look.

“Concerned, yes,” she says. “Maybe a little apprehensive at times. But I trust you.”

His expression softens. He looks away, as if he still can’t bring himself to meet her eyes. He reaches down, takes her hand and squeezes. She understands it’s the only answer he can give: this silent thanks.

“Fuck,” he finally says. “This day went to hell fast.”

“It hasn’t been all bad.”

He snorts. “We drive into a possibly radioactive fallout zone and are forced to decontaminate ourselves in a freezing-ass river and it’s not even two-thirty yet. Give me one good thing about today.”

“We’re clean,” she says lightly.

He breaks into startled laughter. And finally, he looks at her.

His expression is is unexpectedly vulnerable; she can see how the day has worn through him, into the lines around his eyes and the hollow edges of his mouth. And she thinks she understands, if only a little. He thought he only had to guard against human threats—but now there’s this, too. The safe world that humanity built up is now crumbling down, and there’s going to be a lot of damage to deal with. Toxic chemicals, nuclear waste, plastics degrading—all things that humanity hoped it would have time enough to fix… but that was _before_. Before half of the population vanished and left the other half to scramble for survival.

“Frank,” she says, and curls her fingers along his jaw. His stubble scritches against her hand. His pupils dilate a little, lips parting in surprise. She leans in closer and kisses him—lightly, so lightly. Then she pulls back. “We’re okay.”

It reminds her a little of his own words when she killed those men— _you’re good, you’re good—_ uttered when she was in shock. Now, she’s the calm one. She supposes that this is where they differ: she fears the threats she will have to kill, and he fears the ones he can’t.

His hand slides around the back of her head before she can retreat too far, and then he’s kissing her more deeply, and then it goes from _comfort_ to _want_ in fraction of a second. Heat rises beneath her skin and part of her wants to swing a leg over his thighs, to crawl into his lap and feel him against her—but the steering wheel is in the way and already her neck is cramping.

She retreats, but her fingers remain laced with his. The corners of his mouth quirk into a rueful smile. “Fuck. I’m too old to be making out in a truck.”

“This does have a very high school feel to it,” she says. She smooths her thumb along his chin. “I suppose if we’re being immature, this is the time I should admit I took a peak at your ass.”

He laughs again, and she wants to hear him do that, always. “Really? Just the ass?”

“It’s a good ass,” she tells him, grinning.

“I,” he says, “did not look.”

She pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She’s still a little cold. “Old-fashioned?”

He reaches behind them, finds a new blanket—this one heavy a heavy quilt—and tosses it over her. “If you think old-fashioned is a person not wanting their first memories of a person naked to be when they’re both knee-deep in frigid water and afraid for their lives, then yeah? I guess so.”

“So you prefer dinner first.”

“Definitely.”

There’s a moment’s pause in which Frank’s thumb glides along the edge of the steering wheel, up and down, as if he needs something to do with his hands. He stares down into nothing, gaze slightly unfocused.

“We’re gonna get there,” he says, almost as if to himself. And he could be referring to the cabin or their romantic dinner—or anything at all.

She lets the question go unanswered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise update! The good news about being sick is I have literally nothing else to do but take flu meds & write fic. So, upside? Love you all. ❤❤


	7. Chapter 7

Frank doesn’t stop to rest.

He won’t—he fucking can’t. Not after nearly getting them both killed. So he drives north, then west, then south again. It’s a parallel route to the one they would have taken, but this time, it’s far from Susquehanna. Karen falls asleep around three in the morning. She’s too tall to stretch out comfortably in the truck’s cabin, so she’s slumped against the car door, her head pillowed on a jacket. He glances at her every so often. The steady rise and fall of her chest keeps him calm.

The radio is a low buzz in the background; static becomes a steady background noise. Frank eats a protein bar and drinks half a bottle of water and continues to drive. He forgot that infrastructure isn’t just food and water and power. It’s also poison and radioactivity, rust and broken glass. Humanity has insulated itself against the darker aspects of technology but without those walls, things are going to come crashing down.

The cabin is the right idea. The place is off the grid, far enough away from the bigger cities that the collapse may not touch them.

He just has to get there.

He drives through the night, until their small road opens up onto a highway. That puts him on edge, but he doesn’t have many options. The route they were supposed to take is now gone, and he’s left with a too-vague map and a general idea of where they’re supposed to end up.

Karen wakes around six, looking groggy and bleary-eyed. But there’s no sign of flaking skin, no ulcers around the mouth. She looks like she had a terrible night, but she bears no signs of radiation sickness. At least, not yet. The same thing must be on her mind, because the first thing out of her mouth is, “You okay?”

“Fine.” He hands her the water bottle. She drinks deeply, then rubs her hands against her eyes, a groan slipping out.

“You can go back to sleep,” he says.

She shakes her head. “No. It’s fine. If you need me to take over driving…”

His hands tighten on the wheel.

“Or not,” she says, with a faint smile. “All right.”

Around ten in the morning, they reach another military checkpoint.

Frank feels a muscle twitch in his cheek; this is why Frank has avoided the highways for so long. He slows the truck, approaches at an easier pace. He can feel Karen tensing beside him.

The road has been barricaded off with a few well-paced highway patrol cars, but the men standing beside them are in fatigues. Must be a joint operation, then. Frank glances out the window; they’re beside a wide stretch of green land. Farmland, once upon a time. But now he sees armored vehicles, men moving between tents.

It’s not a simple checkpoint—it’s an encampment. Frank recognizes the layout; there must be a few units stationed here.

Frank eases the truck to a halt, then puts it in park. The men before them don’t raise their guns, but the weapons are clearly visible. Frank senses Karen tensing beside him, and he murmurs a quiet, “Shh, it’s fine. They’re probably just making sure no one goes toward the power plant.”

“You think?”

He hopes so.

One of the soldiers approaches. The man is perhaps in his sixties, with thinning gray hair and a weather-worn face. By the look of him, he’s probably a retiree dragged back into service. The soldier raps a knuckle against Frank’s window and gestures him outside.

“Stay in the truck,” says Frank. He doesn’t wait for her reply; he pushes his door open and steps outside, hands visible at all times. He keeps his posture loose and unthreatening. Let them think he’s harmless.

Frank nods at the older man. “Morning, sir.”

The man returns the nod. “Can I see some ID? And registration for the car?”

Frank lets out a breath. He still has his wallet, wonder of wonders. He digs it out of his back pocket and hands over his false license. “Pete Castiglione, sir,” he says. “And no registration for the truck. We took it from someone who passed.” He knows enough of lying to pad it with the truth. They don’t have papers for the car—might as well admit it’s not theirs.

The solider squints through the windshield. “And the woman with you?”

“My wife.” The words come easier than they should. It’s a lie, but only in the particulars. She is his partner in this. And better to make it clear to everyone that if they so much as look at her wrong, they’ll have him to deal with.

The man nods, eyes scanning the license. “Where’re you two coming from?”

“New York.”

“And your destination?”

“Kentucky.” Best to be honest about that, too. Then he adds the lie. “That’s where the in-laws live. They’ve got a place in the country, and I thought it might be best to head that way.”

“Which route did you take here?”

Frank hesitates. “We took six, then twenty-nine.” He hopes that’s far enough north to be out of the range of the Susquehanna plant—the last thing he wants is for these people to know how close they were to it. They’ll probably be taken into custody for mandatory decontamination, their things seized and—

His gaze tracks to Karen, and all of his certainty burns out.

Maybe they should go to the encampment. There’ll be doctors on hand. They could undergo tests, and if she did suffer exposure, there might even be treatment. Neither he nor Karen have shown any symptoms but depending on the dose, radiation sickness might not show up for a few days. And the thought of watching her waste away…

But then again, this is a disaster zone. There’ll be hundreds of sick and injured. The doctors will be overworked and probably undersupplied. They’ll be pulling anyone who’s undergone basic EMT training and asking them to do things that are far beyond their abilities. And Frank doesn’t want to relinquish what freedom they have. If they submit to testing, they could be taken to a government camp for observation. Their truck and belongings could be seized. They could be separated.

Frank knows that the government has good people like Madani working within it. But if martial law’s been declared, then there’ll be no accountability. No one to check the corrupt elements. And without media, there isn’t even a way to report abuses.

The soldier says, “Are you carrying any unlicensed firearms?”

“No, sir.”

The soldier gives him a look. It’s a little too knowing. “So if we looked under the tarp back there—we’d find no guns? None at all?”

Frank considers several answers. “You planning on looking?”

“You plannin’ on giving us a reason?”

There’s a tense moment, and Frank finds his gaze darting to the man’s elbows, knees, collarbone. He’s well into his sixties; his bones won’t be what they once were and his reactions might be slowed. As for the guards behind him, they could be taken out with a shot each. Frank isn’t armed, but the soldier before him is.

 _Fuck._ He drags his gaze to the ground before he can go any farther down that line of thought. He doesn’t want to hurt these men. They’re just doing their job.

He takes a breath, then another, before he meets the old man’s eyes again.

The solider is looking at Frank—brows raised slightly. “Well, son,” he says, and while the man doesn’t reach for his gun, Frank can see him thinking about it. 

Dangerous people—truly dangerous people—have a sense about them. It’s nothing about looks; death doesn’t carve out a place in the face or the eyes. Even so, there’s still something. It’s why even civilians can get bad feelings about certain people—humanity still has some prey instincts left.

The soldier makes an exasperated sound. “You gonna make trouble?”

“No, sir. But I’ve lost people,” says Frank quietly, and with more honesty than he intended. “And I don’t intend to lose any more.”

Emotion passes over the older man’s face. A flash of grief, gone in a moment. He looks down sharply, drawing in a breath. Then he says, “Yeah, I get that.” He marks something else off the checklist. “Wife’s name?”

Frank doesn’t answer.

The man sighs. “We’re keeping a tally of survivors. Trying to create a registry, so people can find one another again. If someone’s looking for either of you… family or friends…”

She does have people who care about her—and if any of them survived, she will want to know.

“Karen Page.”

The soldier marks it down.

Frank glances around them—at the cars and tents and bustling chaos. “Can I ask you something, sir?”

The man nods. “Sure.”

“How bad is it?” Frank asks.

The soldier lets out a breath. “Damn, you couldn’t have asked about fresh water like the rest of them, could you?” He runs a hand through what’s left of his gray hair. “Broad picture? We’re scrambling. If you’re what I think you are, then we could use you.” He gives Frank a squinty, calculating look. “Don’t think I don’t know a brother when I see one. But you’ve got your reasons for staying out, and I’ll respect ‘em.” He takes another moment to answer. “We’re trying to keep things together as best we can, but things have ground to a halt. Hospitals can’t handle the intake—too many injuries happened during the attack. Car crashes, mostly. Drivers just fucking vanished. And if that wasn’t bad enough, we’ve had two nuclear meltdowns. One in Susquehanna, which is why we’ve set up here—to cordon off the area. Another in Wolf Creek, Kansas. There were rumors about South Texas, but nothing’s confirmed.” He nods to the truck. “If you’re really trying to get to Kentucky, you might want to avoid the main roads. Some of the states are trying to close their borders.”

“Thank you, sir,” Frank says, and means it.

The man gives him an abrupt nod. “I had a kid about your age,” he says, not quite meeting Frank’s eyes. And there’s grief in those words, a yawning chasm of emotion that Frank knows all too well. He’s spent too long trying to fall into it, because it’s the kind of place you don’t climb out of. He’s driven it away with vengeance and action, with anger and purpose. This older man is falling back on duty, which is something Frank can respect.

“There’s a camp about half a mile from here,” the soldier says. “It’s all unofficial—mostly scavengers, but they’re not robbing anyone so we haven’t run them off. Mostly a bunch of kids who’re trying to rebuild a little, but with SUVs and tents. They’ll have supplies if you need them.”

“Thank you,” Frank says again.

The soldier clears his throat. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Frank gets back into the truck while the soldier waves to the others, indicating that the truck should be let by. Frank goes on through, and nods at the old man as they pass.

“Everything all right?” Karen asks.

He nods. “Just a checkpoint. But he did say there’s a camp nearby—not run by the feds. We might be able to pick up supplies there.”

They’re low on gas. He hasn’t dared get out in hours.

Karen nods. “Okay.”

“If we’re around others, call me Pete.”

“What?”

“Pete Castiglione,” he says. “It’s the false identity I was living under—and the one Homeland let me keep after all that shit went down.”

“Do you have ID?”

“Yes, and it looks more real than yours, probably,” he says, mouth quirking in a slight smile. “Forgeries are always a little too perfect. I had to dent my license up a bit to make it look normal.”

He can almost fear her worry begin to collect around her. Not for herself, he knows, but for him. She didn’t think about what it would mean to see people again. They’ve been in their own little world for nearly three weeks. They’re not in New York anymore, but Frank knows that news of his trial blew up across the country. His face is known—and he doesn’t have the beard to hide behind at the moment. And while the Punisher being at large is probably less of an issue now the the world has fallen apart, he still doesn’t want to risk a confrontation.

They drive down the road to the hastily-assembled camp. They have to turn off of the road onto a field, the truck jouncing a little beneath them.

It doesn’t look like a camp. It looks like… well, Frank has never actually been to Burning Man, but he’s seen the pictures.

There are clumps of cars parked in groups, with space enough to drive in between; people have crafted shelters out of shipping containers, while others have set up tents; people appear to conversing at a line of folding tables, while someone roasts meat over a large fire. It’s oddly well set up, and Frank sees a young an waving at him, directing Frank where to park the truck. They end up at the fringes of the camp, and Frank locks the truck behind them. Part of him doesn’t want to leave it behind, but everyone appears to be leaving their vehicles unattended.

Karen takes a few steps away from him, her eyes tracking toward the bustle. “Look at this place.”

“It’s… interesting,” says Frank. “I think I saw some tables to the north. If there’ll be a place to buy supplies, it’ll probably be near there.”

“You think it’s safe?” Karen pulls her jacket a little tighter around herself. “I kind of want to look around.” She has a small backpack on her shoulder—the things she won’t trust to keep in the truck. He suspects it holds her book, her notes, and perhaps a photo or two. And her gun, of course.

Frank probably has a very different idea about safety than a normal person. He looks at this camp and sees how a few well-placed M712s could rip into this place like bullets through tissue paper. There’s no cover and the amount of people and cars would be hell for anyone trying to escape. But then again, their greatest threat right now isn’t enemy artillery—it’s fellow humans. So he tries to look more closely at the people around them. There are kids running about. A dog sits beneath a lawn chair while an old lady absentmindedly scratches behind its ears. Two twenty-somethings are playing chess on an overturned cardboard box. There is no undercurrent of fear, nor sign that people are trying to guard themselves.

“I think so,” Frank says. “But keep your guard up, yeah?”

“Of course. Meet back at the truck in an hour?”

“Right.”

* * *

Karen regards the camp with amazement.

She never expected to find this here. Or anywhere, honestly. She has spent so much time alone that the sudden appearance of people feels like a shot of tequila on an empty stomach: dizzying and a little overwhelming, but not in a bad way. She sets off into the camp, taking note of the way the cars are arranged. Some of them have little wooden signs—like neighborhoods. She sees one called “Main Street” and “Schwab’s Place” and even one that says “Gryffindor Common Room.” The latter has a van that’s been painted red and gold, and a few young people on lawn chairs knitting scarves. Someone else is walking a goat on a leash, and she hears other animal sounds coming from a ways away.

Karen wanders a bit at random, just taking everything in, until she hears a crisp voice. Curious, Karen veers to her left and finds herself watching a group of people. There’s a woman standing over them all, atop a crate so everyone can see her. She has dark skin and dreadlocks dyed blue. She has a Pringles can in one hand and a knife in the other. “—Any large can,” she is saying. “I mean preferably a big coffee tin would be nice, but you’ve got to make do.” She speaks to a group of perhaps six or seven other people—all of varying ages and appearances. “Next, you’ll need an n-female chassis mount connector. I’m sure you all have one lying around somewhere, right?”

Laughter ripples through the crowd.

“Well, for those of you who didn’t come prepared, we’ve got some.” The woman shakes a paper bag. “Get one from Chester over here. Next up, we’ve got our copper wire, some nuts and bolts, and something to drill holes with. Get your stuff, and then we’ll move onto the next part.” She waves at the young man standing beside her, and the others swoop down upon him.

The young woman steps off the crate with small grunt, then sees Karen watching. “I don’t know you. Did Rahul send you over? We need a few more hands.”

“Sorry,” says Karen. “Can I ask what you’re doing?”

The woman smiles. She has a stud through her lower lip and another in her eyebrow. “Ah, newbies.” She walks a little closer, holding out her hand. “Anna. Formerly an engineer at Caltech who was on vacation when the world ended. Now I’m teaching people how to make cantennas. And you?”

The introduction has a breezy quality to it, as if Anna has done this more than a few times. “Karen Page,” Karen answers. “Formerly a reporter for the New York Bulletin. Currently trying to stay alive.”

“As are we all,” Anna replies. “Well, if you want to make one, then grab a can. I think all the coffee ones are taken, but there might be some baked beans left.”

“I’m sorry,” Karen says. “What’s a cantenna?”

“A directional waveguide antenna but with the added fun that it smells like Pringles,” the other woman replies. “Although I don’t actually recommend the Pringles cans—they’re good for demonstrations because they’re easy to poke holes in. Once we get wifi up, we could use these to increase the range of the network.”

Karen’s heartbeat quickens. “There’s internet again?”

“They’re trying. Hasn’t quite happened yet. But someone’s bound to get at least some connectivity up soon. These cans’ll boost a signal—pretty well, actually. If we can extend the reach of the wifi, communication’ll be faster. We’re planning on setting up a listserv or a forum—something simple so loading times won’t be hell. A basic sort of news thing. We’ve already got classes going now, but we’ll need a way to teach people who can’t travel.”

“Classes?” Karen repeats. “Like—school classes?”

Anna gestures at the nearby trucks and hastily-assembled shelters. “Do we look like we’re teaching kids? No. We’ve got Rahul telling people how to make snares and traps. Cindy is on weaving and basketry. Greg’s got canning and pickling. We’ve got a group of farmers, so several of them are talking about chickens, pigs, crops, and all that stuff. Oh, and we’ve got some college kids from Humboldt teaching everyone how to grow weed in little planters that will fit on your dashboard. Never thought that’d be a useful skill, but here we are.” She looks proud. “And I’m on communications, obviously.”

For the first time since the world ended, Karen feels a flutter of excitement—of _optimism._ People here are trying to build something. Shelters, crops, a community. Even a wifi network… out of coffee cans, sure, but it’s a reminder that this isn’t over. Humanity hasn’t been beaten yet.

They’re going to make it through this.

“What can you do?” asks Anna. “We always need more help.”

Karen shakes her head. “We’re not staying in the area. Just passing through—but…”

Karen digs into her backpack and comes up with a pad of yellow paper and a pen. They feel comfortable in her hands, and she is falling into a routine she’s familiar with. She recalls her words of only a few moments ago, spoken like a reminder.

_Karen Page, Bulletin Reporter._

And this is the story of a lifetime.

“I’d like to learn as much as I can,” she says.

Anna smiles.

* * *

Frank finds the marketplace at the northern edge of the camp.

It looks like someone’s yard sale, but it’s well-organized. Boxes of small metal bits, tools, toiletries, canned food—all of it. Frank is surprised that people don’t try to rob this place—at least until he sees the burly man standing behind one of the tables. He must be a guard. Prison tattoos mark his forearms and he looks at Frank with narrow-eyed wariness. Frank lets his face go flat, emotionless, and returns the stare.

“You scaring away customers, again, Thomas?” says an older woman. She carries a crate of firewood, setting it down beside a table. The guard frowns, but doesn’t reply.

“You looking to buy?” asks the woman.

Frank slings his own backpack from his shoulder. “What’s the going currency these day?”

She crosses her arms. “Trade. Money’s useless, unless it’s for starting fires. You got anything good in there?”

Before they left the bed and breakfast, Frank made sure to take the wine. Even if they don’t drink it, alcohol is always valuable. Frank places two bottles on the table, and the woman plucks one up. She lets out a low whistle of appreciation. “This’ll do just fine. What are you looking for?”

“Gas,” he says. “A few gallons, enough to get out of the area. Local maps, if you have them.”

The woman nods, then gestures at the burly man. “Thomas, grab the maps and tell Victoria we’ve got someone wanting gas. You got a canister or jug?” That last bit is directed toward Frank. He nods. “We have a few boys who go out and siphon what they can find from cars in the nearby townships,” says the older woman. Her smile has a wicked edge. “The army guys don’t like it, but we’re technically not breaking any laws.”

“One of them actually told me to come here.”

“Probably because we’re still willing to sell gas to them, too.”

The guard sets a heavy plastic container on one of the tables, and the old woman rummages through it, flipping through sheafs of paper. “You want just Pennsylvania?”

“Ohio, too, if you have it. And Kentucky.”

“Anything else?” asks the woman.

Frank is about to shake his head when he sees another box beneath the table. It's full of bagged snacks—the kind that have no nutritional value and an infinite shelf life. Crackers, chips, cookies. Frank almost passes them over when a label catches his eye. He gestures down at one bag. “This, too.”

Once he’s finished, he returns to the truck. He finds a note beneath the windshield wiper—and recognizes both Karen’s handwriting and the yellow paper.

_Talking with a few people. Find the hippie van. Go left, then right at the goat pen. - K_

He puts their new supplies into the truck, then follows Karen’s directions. Sure enough there’s a Volkswagen nearby, and the note leads him past the goat pen, and a bar that is made of a broken folding table set between two barrels. A woman stands behind it, pouring shots of a clear liquid. There’s a teenage girl playing violin, and a few people listen nearby. There’s smoke on the air—the acrid dryness of cigarettes and the sour tang of weed.

Karen is sitting with a middle-aged man at a picnic table, wire wrapped around her fingers. She appears to be intently focusing on it, nodding along as the man talks. “—Make sure it’s the right height,” he’s saying. “Too tall and you won’t catch anything. Too short and they’ll jump over it. And remember, location is key.”

Karen nods, looping one piece of the wire though. “This good?”

The man studies her handiwork. “Not bad on the slip knot. But the entire wire is too short—these are just for practice. You’ll want around two and half to three feet when you do this for real.”

“I think I can manage that.”

Frank approaches and Karen glances up, a smile lighting her face. “Hey.” She rises to her feet. “This is Rahul. Rahul, this is Pete.”

Rahul gives him a nod.

“He’s teaching me how to make snares,” Karen says. And there’s something in her voice he hasn’t heard for weeks—eagerness. She flashes that smile at Rahul. “Thank you so much—I won’t take up any more of your time.”

They exchange a handshake, and Karen walks away from the picnic table, falling into step beside Frank. They slowly wind their way through the trailers and trucks and a hollowed-out school bus. “I see you met some people,” Frank says.

“It’s amazing.” She is glowing, brimming over with excitement. “I’ve been interviewing people for an hour—they’ve got an entire community here, and they’re trying to spread outward. Teaching others how to survive, how to plant their own food, even prepping ways to extend the wifi once it’s back up. I must have taken eight pages worth of notes and I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Frank looks at the spread of vehicles and tents. It looks more like a post-apocalyptic music festival than a group of survivalists, but then again, who is he to judge. “So they’re doing well?”

“They’re working together,” says Karen simply. “And it’s making all the difference.”

Something in her words gives him pause. His steps slow, and he looks at her. “You want to stay?” He doesn’t ask the question lightly, and she must know it.

Her lips press into a line. “No. Not permanently. I think—just for a day or two, if that’s all right? I’d like some more time to talk to people.”

It’s not a bad idea. They can gather news of the rest of the world; Karen can do her reporter thing; Frank can figure out their exact route down to Kentucky… and if either of them start throwing up blood—well, the military encampment’s only a short distance away.

Frank nods. “We could. Need a different place to park the truck, though.”

“One of Anna’s friends—a woman called Vicky was telling me about where she was staying—it’s a on the eastern edge of the camp.” She shakes her head in admiration. “She found a food truck. An actual food truck. Now she’s living out of it and cooking meals out of it for her and anyone who can trade gas or supplies. You’ve got to admire what they’ve built here.”

“Yeah,” he says.

They do end up moving the truck to the eastern edge of camp; Karen greets a woman with blue dreadlocks and a roll of copper wire around one wrist. Karen gets out of the truck to go converse with her for a moment, then she returns and says, “We can park beside the red truck.”

They park on a flat stretch of field, and the earthy smell indicates it must have been used for livestock. Karen sets up their tent while he does a quick survey of the surrounding area: latrines are about a quarter mile away; there are a few men and women patrolling at the edges of the camp (“Mostly to keep raccoons and coyotes away,” one of them admits), and the lights from the military encampment are visible on the horizon.

He is glad for the dusk. The dimming light means he can stop turning his face away from every encounter. When he returns, he finds the tent fully set up. It’s one they took from their ambushers, just about the right size for two people. Karen talking to an old man. He has a dog with him—a husky on a leash. Karen is taking notes. “—Got out of Chicago,” the man’s saying. “I had family near here, so I wanted to check on them.”

“Did you…?” Karen hesitates, unable to finish the question.

The man nods. “I was one of the lucky ones. My daughter and her family were all right—the neighbors next door, not so much. We started traveling toward one of the state camps, ended up here instead. It’s been pretty good.”

“Do you trade in supplies or…?”

“Labor, too,” says the man. “I used to hunt. Now they’ve got me and a few others going out.” The man’s gaze finds Frank, and he smiles. “Looks like your husband’s back. I’ve got to help cook dinner, anyways. If you want to learn more about the hunting parties, talk to James.” He gives Frank a nod, tugs on the dog’s leash, and together they wander away.

Karen throws a look at Frank. He can’t quite decipher it. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t—I mean, I wouldn’t go around telling people—I’m not even wearing a ring, so I don’t know why he assumed—“

It takes him a moment to understand why she thinks she has to apologize. “It’s fine. Most people will assume and it’s probably better that way.” He waits a beat, considering telling her, then just decides to go ahead. “That’s what I told the guard at the checkpoint when he asked who you were.”

She blinks.

“It’s the simplest explanation I could think of,” he says. “And it’ll keep any unwanted attention at bay.” 

That gets him a small laugh. “Yeah, I get that. Easier to just say ‘married’ than...” She trails off, as if unsure how to finish. "But if anyone starts referring to me as Mrs. Castiglione, I’m going to tell them I kept my last name."

“Fair enough.” 

* * *

Frank makes sure the truck is secure before going into the tent.

Karen is still working in her notebook, writing with fervor. “God, I miss my laptop,” she says, without looking up. Frank unlaces his boots before scooting inside. She did a good job setting everything up; the cot mattresses are pressed to one another and the blankets look soft and inviting. Or maybe that’s because he hasn’t slept much. He stretches out, feels his spine crack with a faint sense of relief, then rolls into his side, facing her. For a few moments, he simply watches. It’s a wonder to watch her work—eyes slightly narrowed, fingernails rapping against the pen, her lips forming words before she writes them.

Frank Castle has never believed in much. Not in luck nor superstitions. Not even in God, for all that he attended mass with his parents for the first fourteen years of his life. But he does believe in Karen Page. If anyone can make sense of this, it will be her. When they were first together in that bunker, he thought it would be enough to keep her alive. To make sure she’s safe and well. His own wants are things he’s tried not to pay too much attention to, but they were brought into sharp focus that night she kissed him. 

He’s in deep. So fucking deep.

Karen lets out a sigh and puts the notepad down. She places her fingertips against one another, stretching out her palms absentmindedly before meeting Frank’s gaze. It’s only then she seems to notice that she’s not alone. A slow smile pulls at her mouth.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey.”

“How did things go at the market?” She puts her notebook aside and begins braiding her hair back. She ties it off with a small bit of string. “I was so caught up in everything I forgot to ask.”

“Not bad,” he replies. “We’ve got enough gas to get us to the next town, or at least, until we find another abandoned car. I figured there’d be less around here, since there are so many scavengers.”

“Good.”

He hesitates for a moment, then reaches into his backpack. “I—uh. Got you something.”

The bag is a little crumpled. The plastic crackles beneath her fingers as she holds it, gazing at the label with a kind of wide-eyed incredulity. “Ginger snaps?”

“Yeah. Thought you might want them. With everything gong to hell, it’ll probably be a while until luxuries are a thing again.” Karen looks at him, brows drawn tight. He shifts in place, feeling unaccountably uncomfortable at having to explain. “You talked about them.”

“Forever ago.” She shakes her head. “When you were drugged to the gills. I didn’t think you’d remember that.”

He doesn’t know how to tell her that he remembers all of it: how she relaxed when she talked about her childhood, the easy play of her fingers in the air as she spoke. He remembers every word.

The cookies are a cheap brand, the kind someone might pick up as an impulse purchase at any grocery store. But she looks delighted. “These are—thank you.” She puts the bag away, slipping it safely into her duffel. Then she stretches out beside him, her eyes on his face. Some of her happiness drains away. “How are you feeling? Any signs of radiation?”

“Fine.”

“You were outside longer than I was,” she says. “And don’t give me any of that crap about bigger body masses.”

“I’m fine, Karen.”

Her frown is pensive. She reaches out, fingers lightly brushing his chest. Over a scar, he realizes. It’s an old bullet wound, still stained wine red. He watches the thoughts play out across her face, trying to place organs and muscle beneath the wound’s location. She is trying to figure out how close it came to killing him. He catches her hand in both of his.

“Come here,” he says.

She is still bruised and sore from the car crash, so he’s careful. He pulls her closer, until her brow is nearly against his, mouths so close they almost touch when he speaks. “What this is,” he says. “Whatever’s between us, you need to know that I’m in this for the long haul. It’ll take more than radiation to get rid of me.”

She exhales and he feels the whisper of air. “Frank.” She speaks his name so quietly, with the thin walls of the tent around them. “What _do_ you want there to be between us?”

“Fewer clothes.” The words just fucking slip out before he can stop them—and there’s a moment of _oh shit_ before she’s laughing.

“Agreed,” she says. “And you should know. I’m not trying… I would never try to take away what you had. With Maria, with your kids. I know they’re still the most important things to you, and I’d never try to replace your family.”

She still doesn’t understand. Frank shakes his head. “You couldn’t replace my family. You’re—fuck.” He is terrible at articulating this and he knows it, but the words have to be said. She needs to understand. “It used to be me and Maria and the kids. And Billy, and Curt, and the men in my unit. Family, real family, has jack to do with blood. It’s about who’s there for you. So, you see, you couldn’t replace my family, Karen. You’re part of it.” 

She looks stunned and pale, and for a few seconds he is scared he’s frightened her off. He should have known that she wouldn’t spook so easily. Her hands tighten on his. And when she kisses him, it’s slow and careful. All reassurance and comfort, and he drinks it in like a man dying of thirst. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs to all of my readers. <3 I’m feeling better, so thank you for all the well wishes.


	8. Chapter 8

Frank is dreaming.

He knows he’s dreaming because he is warm and comfortable and smells pancakes. It’s a good dream—far better than the ones he’s used to.

He sits up, blankets falling away. The space beside him is empty; there are still a few blonde hairs on the pillow, though. He scrubs one hand across his face; he needs a shave—or maybe not. Maybe he should just grow the beard out again. It might help keep his face warm, come winter. But then again, it depends on what Karen thinks. After all, if things continue in the direction they’ve been going, she’ll be the one dealing with that beard up close. He almost groans aloud, remembering the previous night.

“Fewer fucking clothes,” he mutters to himself. “Smooth, Castle.”

She disarms him. Makes it easy to say things he probably should keep to himself.

The whine of the zipper makes him look up. Karen maneuvers inside, somehow balancing a plastic container in one hand and a metal cup in the other. Her hair is still mussed from sleep and she’s wearing a jacket over her tank and leggings. “Morning,” she says brightly. “Sorry, I know it’s not great, but…” She holds out the cup. He smells the coffee before he sees it. There are a few grounds swirling along the top, but he doesn’t care. It’s _coffee._

“You found food?” he asks. His voice is a little sleep-rough, so he takes a sip of the coffee.

“Traded breakfast for those terrible CDs in the truck,” she says. “I won’t miss the country, let me tell you.” With a grin, she pulls the lid off of the plastic container.

It’s—pancakes. He recognizes the smell that wafted through the tent earlier.

“How,” he starts to say.

“Food Truck Vicky,” she answers. “Eggs from the nearby chicken coup; scavenged flour. She’s got her own sourdough starter going, because instant yeast is too hard to find, she says. The syrup is blackberry. I hope that’s okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes. “Page. Only you could find a hot breakfast after the end of the fucking world.”

He means it. If he’d been alone, he would have stopped for gas. Filled up his truck then continued on. But Karen—she wanted to stay. To talk with people, to do what she does best: dig into the heart of people and tell stories that would otherwise never be told. She isn’t content with simple survival. She needs purpose.

She laughs. “I’ll take that for a ‘thank you.’”

They eat their breakfast in relative silence, only punctuated with a few comments about their plans for the day. Karen wants to continue learning and speaking with people. As for Frank, he’s decided to go talk to those hunters. Might as well see what he can skills he can pick up while he’s here. Once they’re finished, Frank volunteers to bring the dishes back to the food truck while Karen changes clothes and brushes her teeth. The camp is busy with morning activity: kids helping out with animals and a few people loading up trucks and vans—presumably to scavenge from abandoned homes nearby.

He ends up spending the morning with two hunters who seem amenable to teaching him. One is a former army ranger from Virginia who lost one arm in Iraq, while the other is a middle-aged woman from Montana. Frank listens with mild amusement as the two get into arguments over tree stands and how best to cover one’s scent.

“What do you know about hunting?” asks the man.

Frank shrugs. “I’m from New York. Only thing we hunt there are cheap apartments.”

“You ever shot anything before?” asks the woman.

Frank wills himself to keep his expression flat. “Once or twice.”

“It’s all about the waiting,” says the woman. “You gotta set up your stand, find your best angle, then just… wait.” She squints at Frank through the frizz of her gray hair. “You a good shot?”

“Decent,” he replies.

“Do you know how to dress a kill?”

Frank shakes his head.

“Let me rephrase this,” says the woman. “Do you have any aversion to blood?”

“No.”

“Are you good with knives?”

He shrugs. “Not bad.”

“Then you’ll do just fine, kid,” says the woman. “I’ll talk you through it. Now the first step is—”

* * *

By the time Frank returns to bustle of camp, he knows more about deer anatomy than he ever wanted to.

The things a man has to do to survive an apocalypse, he thinks a little wryly.

He finds Karen with a group of young kids transplanting radishes into larger pots. Her fingers are marked with fresh earth and she’s smiling. Her notebook is beside her, and he catches sight of a list of supplies. He picks it up. “Shopping list?”

She rises to her feet, brushing her fingers on her pants. A slight grimace passes over her face as she moves. “I think so. I talked to a few gardeners about what’ll grow best in Kentucky. She recommended these—we can plant a few pots indoors, that way we can harvest food through the winter.”

Frank nods. “I can see about these supplies now. Meet you back at the truck for lunch?”

She makes an effort to smile, but it falls away quickly. “Sounds good.” She turns back to the kids before he can say anything else.

Frank returns to the marketplace. The same old woman is there, but there’s a different guard. He looks like he might be from the same prison gang, though. He gives Frank a flinty glare.

“Back so soon?” asks the old woman. “Got any more wine?”

“I do,” he replies, and places Karen’s list on the table. It’s mostly potting soil and plastic planters. Seeds, fertilizer, and a pair of pruning shears come next. The old woman offers him a cardboard box and he stacks their supplies into it.

It’s a good feeling carrying the box back to the truck. This detour has proven invaluable—knowledge and supplies at the same time. Ever since this all began, Frank feels as though he’s been all reaction and instead of action. But now, they have a few moments to catch their breath and figure out their next steps. This is how they’re going to survive: careful planning.

Frank sets the box into the back of the truck, covering with the tarp. He sees Karen’s shadow beside the truck and walks around to ask if she’s hungry yet.

Karen is doubled over, arm across her belly and face a little pale. Her back is to the truck, as if she needs it to remain upright.

The adrenaline response is a curious thing. Some people freeze, while others burst into a hot rage. For Frank, it’s always manifested as the world coming into focus. Emotion drains away and all that is left are mission objectives and obstacles to be removed. He’s a cold killer, and he knows it—that’s why he is such a good one.

But now—all of that calm evaporates.

All he sees is the slight sheen of sweat on Karen’s brow and the way her fingers dig into her lower belly. Fear is a knot in his chest. _Fuck_. Fuck—he’s been so stupid. He should have admitted the truth to those soldiers, allowed himself and Karen to be taken in for testing.

He is beside her in a few long strides, one hand on her cheek, tilting her face so that he can get a better look. He tries to dredge up every memory of Curtis reading from those medical papers. He needs to get her to a place with proper medical equipment now; radiation sickness isn’t a wound he can stitch closed. She needs a doctor.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he says, and his fear comes out as sharp anger.

She frowns at him. “Because I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

He’s had bullet wounds that hurt less than those words.

“And besides, it’ll go away in a day or two,” she says with a grimace. “It always does.”

“What?” he says, confusion puncturing his alarm. “What are you talking about?”

She frowns at him. “What are _you_ talking about?”

“You’re…” He isn’t sure how to finish. Because she _isn’t_ dying, he won’t let her die.

“On my period,” she finishes for him. A growl reverberates through her. “End of the fucking world and I still get my period. Stained my favorite jeans, too.”

_Oh._

It takes him a few seconds to reply; his brain has to manually switch tracks from ‘possibly dying of radiation exposure’ to ‘menstrual bleeding.’

Not a life or death matter.

He can probably stop shaking now.

“It started an hour or two ago, and I don’t usually make a habit of announcing it. Most of the guys I’ve been with preferred not to hear about it.” She grinds her knuckles into her lower abdomen, as if it might help.

He tries to dredge up what memories he can. Maria was usually exhausted for the first few hours, and God help anyone who came between her and her heating pad. “You need anything?”

She shakes her head. “It’s fine. Everything will ache for a day or two, but I’m used to it.” She tips her head back, leaning against the truck. “It’s just—irritating. I’ll need to look for more tampons. I only have a few with me.”

“The marketplace will probably have tampons,” he says. “I can go back, buy what you need.”

“Thanks.”

It is going to take a few minutes for the adrenaline to leave him. There have been too many brushes with death, too many close calls. It’s all too easy to take the bloodstained memories of his family and overlay them across Karen. “You’d tell me,” he says, “if something were truly wrong.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, because he doesn’t want it to be one.

There is the briefest moment of quiet before she says, “Yes, of course.”

But that heartbeat of silence is answer enough.

He knows her. And if there is one thing he knows about Karen Page, it is that she is so very determined to protect those she cares about. She would rather cut off a limb than hurt a loved one. If that means keeping a few truths from them, she would do it. If she thought it was in his best interests, she might hide an injury. Pretend to be fine when she isn’t.

That frightens him. More than he can say.

She reaches for him, hand coming to rest on his chest. Touch seems to come so easily to her; he watched her interact with her friends during his trial; she would pat Franklin Nelson’s arm when he was nervous, nudge him with an elbow when she was amused, and squeeze Murdock’s hand in greeting. At least—until that rift came between them. He still isn’t sure precisely what happened, but something fractured his legal team halfway through the trial. At the time, he didn’t much care, but now he finds himself a little curious. Maybe he’ll ask, someday.

For now, his attention is on the light pressure of her hand.

She is always careful with him. So damned careful.

He doesn’t quite know what to do with that gentleness.

* * *

They leave the camp after four days—long enough for Karen to fill half a notebook and for her period to pass. They spend those days with the other campers: Frank with the hunters, then Rahul—learning the ins and outs of hunting and trapping. It’s not that difficult, in theory. In practice… he’ll see. As for Karen, she continues to talk to people. She writes down their stories: what happened to them during the attack, how they survived the aftermath, what observations they’ve gathered.

If— _no, when_ —things finally go back to normal, then Karen will probably be able to write a book about it all.

On the fourth day, Frank packs up the back of their trunk while Karen says farewell to her new friends. He watches her hugging the woman called Anna and a few others. When she returns, she has a small fabric bag in her hand, with what appears to be green leaves growing out the top. “The Humboldt students came to say goodbye,” she says, and that’s when he sees the cut of the leaves.

“So they gave you pot?” he says, unable to hold back an incredulous laugh.

“Hey,” she says, but she is smiling, too. “For the record, this stuff _is_ a painkiller. And since we might not have access to pharmacies for much longer, I thought it might come in handy.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” he says. “But only give it to me if I really need it. If I’m missing a limb or some shit like that.”

“Oh?” She sounds intrigued.

“I tried it twice in high school,” he says. “And let’s just say it’s a good thing that all those people who’ve tried to interrogate me didn’t have any on hand.”

She laughs. “Truth serum for you?”

“Pretty much.” He nods at the plant. “And you’re right. If one of us gets hurt, it’ll be handy to have around.”

She tucked the plant into the back of the truck cabin. She has to lean over to do so, and her hair is a golden curtain across her face when she says, “Pot was never… my first choice. I figure it’s safe to use in case I get injured somehow.”

He looks at her sharply. She speaks a little too lightly, a little too airily. “And what was your drug of choice?” he asks, utterly neutral.

“Drugs. Plural. Coke, mostly,” she answers. “Ecstasy, on occasion. Vicodin, if my boyfriend could get it.” She straightens, meets his eyes. Hers are so blue that it hurts.

“You haven’t used in a long time.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“It’s been over ten years.” Her mouth presses into a line. “Not since that night. And I won’t. Not again. Even if I end up shot or disemboweled… or whatever—don’t give me narcotics or opioids. Please.” The last word sounds like it costs her something.

His answer costs him something, too. “Okay.”

They finish loading up the truck. “I’ll drive,” says Karen, and there’s a bit of rough-edged steel in her voice. Like she needs to do this. Maybe she does.

Frank nods. The engine grumbles to life when Karen twists the key in the ignition, then puts the car in drive. Frank watches through the window as the camp slides away. They pull out onto the highway and leave this little scrap of civilization behind. He sees Karen give it one last glance in the rearview mirror before she squares her shoulders.

They head south.

* * *

They drive for two days without any incidents. Their path takes them through the edge of West Virginia, then into Ohio. Frank has the maps memorized, and he’s written his own notes in pencil, scribbling which ways to go if there’s a downed tree or impassible road. They’ll be approaching Kentucky on the back roads, just like that soldier advised. Frank would rather not run into state officials trying to close their borders.

Not for the first time, Frank wonders what is going on in the government. They must be scrambling to try and pull things back together.

But those are far off concerns, and Frank has more immediate ones.

He and Karen have fallen back into routine. They split the driving between them, and at night, they pull off the road far enough to set up their tent. They eat rehydrated meals and use the camper stove to boil water for coffee. Frank has to force himself to ration the coffee; he won’t drink it all at once. Even so, he glowers at the coffee grounds and remembers the days of fresh roasted beans and espresso. Karen laughs a little at that, kissing his temple.

She touches him a lot these days. He does, too, now that he knows her bruises are little more than green smudges along her ribcage. She is mostly healed from that ambush—and that seems so long ago.

Time moves strangely in this new world. It seems too fast and too slow at the same time. He measures the days out in miles traveled—and she seems to measure them in words written. She’s still writing, when she isn’t driving. And it’s both amusing and a little endearing to see her with her feet up on the dashboard, using her knees as a flat surface to work upon. Her pen flashes across the paper.

The sun is beginning to fade across the western horizon, so Frank searches for a place to pull over. They’re in a forest—old growth, mostly. Thick canopy overhead, little undergrowth beneath. Frank finds a clearing and drives into it, bringing the truck to a halt.

They make a dinner of boiled noodles and some of the fresh vegetables they bought at the camp. It’s a good meal, and Frank finds himself enjoying the quiet of the night around them. The night is cool but not uncomfortably so, particularly when they set up the tent and crawl inside. A bit of moonlight makes it through the trees overhead, turning Karen’s hair silver-white. She sits atop her thin mattress, dressed in her tank and leggings.

She’s beautiful. So beautiful sometimes it feels like he can only look at her from the corner of his eye, like she’s the fucking sun.

She is untangling her hair from a braid. Without pausing to think about it, he reaches out and brushes his thumb against the soft strands. Her hands fall away, and she tilts her head, offering herself to him.

He could never refuse. He gently tugs the strands from their braid, smooths them down her neck. She shivers beneath his touch.

“You think we would’ve ended up like this if everything hadn’t gone to hell?” she asks.

He exhales. “Probably not.”

“ _Frank._ ”

“You’d have had options,” he says, with a small shrug. “Found some normal man with a decent job who worshiped the ground you walked on.”

“Frank.” Now she sounds fondly irritated. “You’re an idiot.”

“Am I?”

She tilts her face toward his. It feels like gazing into the sky—like he could fall into her if gravity lost its hold on him. “I lived in a city of millions—and it didn’t matter. It’s been you. Even before all of this happened.” She presses her brow to his, and he can feel the soft breath from her parted lips.

His reply is all tangled up in his mouth; he doesn’t know how tell her that she is the first person to make him happy since he woke in a hospital unmoored by loss, that he would gladly kill or die for her but he isn’t sure how to do this again—how to belong to another, now that he knows the searing pain of losing them.

He kisses her. The angle is a little awkward, and for a moment, he’s unsure if he remembers how to do this. He’s been alone so long that he’s not sure he can—

Her fingers splay across his cheek, and then she swings her leg up and over him, straddling his lap and then she’s kissing him without any kind of hesitation. And his body remembers how to do this, even if he doesn’t. His hands slide up her back, feeling the strength of her. Her tongue is sweet against his, and she’s making the smallest of sounds, as if she’s trying to hold back words. His mouth moves from hers, strays down her neck. Her long, gorgeous neck that he will admit, he has wanted to touch for far too long. He nips his way to her shoulder, then back up to her ear. 

“Frank,” she gasps. “Please. Touch me.”

Armies and assassins and criminals could not bring the Punisher to his knees but a plea from Karen Page will do it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs against her skin, fingers sliding up beneath her shirt.

It’s a little awkward, because having sex in a goddamn tent is an activity for far younger men than he. But they manage to get undressed, clothes tossed carelessly to the side. He discovers that she has a sensitive spot at the base of her neck and she runs her hands along his sides, up his back. She is as touch-hungry as he is, grinding against him and gasping encouragements. He wants to lose himself in her, to forget everything but the taste of her skin and sound of her saying his name. He’s not sure he deserves something good and whole after the end of the world, but _she_ sure as fuck does. And if he’s the one she wants—he’ll do his best to give her a few moments of peace.

She makes a gratifyingly ragged sound when he kisses his way down her stomach and pulls off her panties. She has a few moles along her belly and one tucked into the crease of her hip, and he takes a moment to nuzzle each before moving lower and kissing at the softness of her inner thigh. Someday he is going to make a map of those marks, spend hours memorizing the taste and feel of her bare skin. But this time, this is for her.

Well, maybe not _all_ for her. Because the taste of her is something he’s never going to get enough of.

She makes a choked sound when his mouth is on her, and he can feel the muscles trembling in her legs. He drags his tongue up and over her clit, savoring the fragments of his name spill from her lips. She’s fucking gorgeous like this, legs splayed and eyes on him, as if she can’t quite believe what she is seeing. He likes to think he’s pretty decent at this, and judging from the sounds she makes, she doesn’t disagree. One of her hands claws at the blankets while the other grabs at his shoulder. “Fuck,” she breathes. She shivers, eyes fluttering shut as he savors her. “Frank.” She tugs a little on his hair. “Come here.”

He laps at her one last time and feels her leg jerk against him. Then he obeys, crawling up her body until his hard cock is pressed to her hip.

She kisses him, arms around his neck and breasts soft against his chest. “Hey,” she says, breaking the kiss.

“Hey,” he answers. “You still good?”

In answer, she reaches between them and strokes his cock. His forehead falls into the crook of her shoulder and he mouths at her neck, trying to find something to do other than come in her hand like a fucking teenager. She wraps one leg around his waist, and he can feel the slick heat of her against him. That first slow thrust has him groaning into her hair; she feels like sunlight and heat and home all at once. He has to bite on the inside of his cheek to keep from coming too quickly. “God, Frank,” she whispers.

Her nails rake across his lower back in encouragement. It’s slow at first, figuring out how they fit against one another. Fingers twined, breaths mingled. It’s soft and sweet—for the first few moments, at least. She rolls her hips against him and it’s like being pulled into a riptide. She throws her head back, an unmistakable note of pleasure in her voice when he thrusts harder, a little faster. She is going to be the death of him and he can’t bring himself to care.

“Show me,” he rasps. “Fuck. Show me how to make you come.”

“No rush,” she whispers, kissing his throat.

“Yes, there is,” he says, and she laughs softly. Her hand slips between them, framing his fingers with her own before touching herself. And goddamn, he is going to beg her to do this again, someday, to just let him watch. He replaces her fingers with his, and one caress of his thumb has her arching against him, and he finds his own way from there.

He feels her come beneath him, and it’s too much for him. His pace roughens, his voice a low keen when he feels himself begin to fall over that edge—and then panic slices through him. He pulls out just in time, and then he’s gasping against her forehead, her name on his lips.

When he can think, when he can move, he reaches for his discarded sweatshirt and uses it to help clean up the mess. “Shit,” she says, when she sees what he’s doing. “I forgot.”

“Almost did, too,” he admits.

She throws her arm over her eyes with a groan. “I mean—it’s probably fine. My period just ended. But you’re right, we shouldn’t risk it.”

He is glad she understands. Because the idea of getting her pregnant scares the ever-loving shit out of him. It’s not just the idea of fatherhood a second time—and he is honestly not sure he could do it again. Losing his kids nearly broke him; no, it _did_ break him. It took so long to come back from that, and he never wants to live through it again. But even if he wanted more kids, it’s not safe. There’s no healthcare anymore. He is keenly aware that they’re on their own, at least for the foreseeable future. Pregnancy is fucking risky. Maria had dangerously high blood pressure the second time, and even with a hospital only a ten minute drive away, it was still nerve-wracking.

“I can’t believe,” she says, “we grabbed every bag of coffee at that bed and breakfast and didn’t think to look for condoms.”

Frank feels a flush creep up his neck. “I did. Back at the pharmacy in Glen Lyon.”

“You didn’t.” She sounds both disbelieving and delighted.

“But they might have been irradiated, so it’s a good thing they were left behind.”

She sighs, stretching luxuriously. He watches with interest at the way the dim light plays across her bare skin. “And to think I once passed up getting an IUD because I was too busy to make an appointment.”

“We’ll make do,” he says, and kisses the place above her ear.

They curl up together on the blankets; he can feel her heartbeat against his hand, and it’s more soothing than any lullaby.

* * *

The journey after that is surprisingly pleasant. Sure, it’s still siphoning gasoline out of abandoned cars and eating dehydrated meals and keeping a wary eye on every person they come across—but there are also orgasms. Karen has almost forgotten how much she likes sex. And it’s not just the sex—it’s the companionship. It’s Frank smiling at her in the morning, her kissing his cheek before rising from the cot. It’s trading the driving in shifts, knuckles bumping as they work in the back of the truck. It’s nice to have someone around that she cares for and knows she can depend on. 

But the sex—that’s also really, really good.

Part of her still can’t quite believe this is her life. Half of the earth’s population vanished a month ago and she’s with the Punisher. She isn’t even sure which one would be more absurd to the Karen Page of a year ago. That Karen had just met Frank in a hospital room and wanted to unearth the truths about him that others tried to bury. She didn’t understand how her life would shift once she learned those truths. Some were bloody, others terrifying, and some heartbreaking.

She can’t bring herself to regret any of it, not when it led her here.

The night after they cross into Kentucky, a storm breaks across the landscape. They can’t sleep in the tent, so they make do in the truck’s cabin. She ends up curled up into a tight ball on the seat, her legs pulled beneath her and head tucked against Frank’s shoulder. His arm is around her, fingers in her hair. His thumb circles the spot behind her ear and the light touch lulls her into a doze.

Around three in the morning, a crack of lightning startles her awake. The rain is still pounding against the truck, so torrential it looks like they’re beneath a waterfall. She sits up, half-expecting Frank’s arm to fall away—but instead, it tightens around her. “Hey, it’s fine,” he says, his voice barely audible above the din of the storm.

“You sure the truck isn’t about to get swept away or something?” she asks. She can’t see much in the dark, but she has visions of creeks swelling beyond their banks.

“We’re too high up for flooding. We’ll keep a lookout for standing water tomorrow, though.” She feels his lips touch her hair. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

She shivers—both at the touch and his words. The endearment comes so easily from him. She snuggles a bit closer. With a quilt wrapped around them both, it’s cozy. It feels like a small universe, population of two.

Part of her never wants to leave this place. Wants to take this moment and preserve everything about it. They’re safe and warm and together and that’s all that matters.

She drifts off, the rise and fall of Frank’s chest at her back and the drumming of the rain overhead.

She should have known it wouldn’t last.

* * *

Karen wakes to the sound of a gun tapping against the window.

The dark circles of the twin-barrel shotgun are all-encompassing—a gaping maw, and for a heartbeat, Karen can’t look away. The gun is angled toward her, and she hears Frank’s sharp intake of breath at her ear.

“Get out,” says a man. He is probably in his mid-fifties and wears a heavy denim jacket. “Get out of the car or I shoot you both.”

It takes her sleep-muddled mind a few seconds to understand.

There is someone outside and they’re armed.

But—how? They’re in the middle of nowhere. In Kentucky. Even before half the world vanished, it’s not like this place could be heavily populated. Surely the odds of running into another survivor, another hostile survivor, shouldn’t be possible.

But here they are.

At her back, Frank is tense as corded wire. There is little he can do, though—she’s between him and the weapon. Then, there’s another sound and she realizes there is more than one person. Someone is going through the back of the truck, pulling at the tarp. 

“Come on,” Frank says in an undertone. “No sudden moves, okay?”

She nods, the quilt slipping away as she sits up.

“We’re coming out,” says Frank, more loudly. “We’re unarmed.”

The man with the shotgun nods, but he doesn’t lower the weapon.

Karen slips out first; she is glad she never took off her shoes for the night. Even so, she feels a little bare in only her leggings and a loose t-shirt and no bra. To his credit, the older man doesn’t leer at her. He looks too furious for that.

Frank emerges after her. His posture is deceptively loose and his eyes slightly unfocused, but she’s seen that stance too many times to mistake it for anything but wariness. He is trying to look at everything at once. She does the same.

There are three people—the older, grizzled man. A woman about his age in an oversized leather jacket, and a younger man. Perhaps their son. Behind them is an old brown truck that looks like something out of an old movie set. 

Three against two. At least only one of them is armed. Unease settles at the base of Karen’s neck, prickling across her shoulders.

“You trespassed on our land,” the older man says. “This is private property.”

“Sorry, sir,” says Frank. “We didn’t know. We needed a place to park during the storm.”

The man looks at Frank. Truly looks at him. “You’re a bit scarred up to be some bystander on a trip.” 

Frank meets the man’s gaze levelly. “We didn’t come here for a fight."

There’s a shout around the back of the truck. Karen turns and sees the young man peeling back the tarp. “They sure as fuck did,” he says. “It’s a goddamn armory back here.” He reaches down, picks up a pistol and hefts it into his palm. “Loaded, too."

Frank exhales sharply. “Those are for protection. We—"

“I count two rifles, three submachine guns, I can’t even tell you how many smaller pieces...” The young man leans over the truck, rummaging around. “They’re not tourists, Dad. They’re raiders. Good ones, too, by the look of it."

 _Raiders._ The word settles between the older man and Frank, and Karen sees the tension draw tight between them. 

A flush rises in the man’s face. His hands shake on the shotgun. “We’ve seen your kind before. You think we haven’t? Fucking scavengers. You’re here, just like the rest of them. Here to take what little we have left.”

“We haven’t,” Karen starts to say, but the man snarls.

“All that shit in the back of your truck,” he says, “is yours, then? Didn’t take any of it from someone else?”

Frank doesn’t answer and that seems answer enough. The man’s face twists with fury. “People like you are vultures,” he growls. “Taking from good people, stealing from them. You’re fucking locusts, and no one would miss you.”

She wonders who stole from these people and what they took. Maybe it was more than simple supplies—this kind of fury doesn’t come from nowhere.

Maybe this family was hit by the kind of scum that attacked Frank and Karen on the road.

These are probably not bad people. They’re just angry and scared—but that does make them dangerous. 

“We’re not thieves,” she says. “We took, yes, but only from those who wouldn’t need it anymore.”

The man’s lips twist. “From the dead? You think that’s something to be proud of? You’re grave robbers and probably murderers, and we’re done. We’re fucking done, you hear? We’re going to take that truck and everything in it—and the two of you can walk back the way you came.”

Frank takes half a step forward. He gently angles himself so that Karen is behind him—and it’s only then she notices the slight bulge beneath his shirt. There’s something tucked into the waist of his pants.

He’s armed.

Of course he is.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says. His voice is deceptively calm. “But I can’t let you do that. We’ll leave and we won’t give you any trouble. We’re just passing through.”

“You won’t give anyone trouble,” agrees the man. “Not again.” He gestures at Karen with the shotgun. “You—step away and—”

The moment the barrel swings toward Karen, Frank moves more quickly than she has ever seen. There’s a glint of silver as he grasps the handgun at the small of his back and brings it up, firing a warning shot past the older man’s ear. He stumbles, staggers, and falls.

Everything happens at once. People are shouting, moving, feet churning through the dead leaves on the ground, smoke from gunfire rising like morning mist. The younger man and the woman take refuge behind their own truck, but the older man is still getting up, blood running down his left ear. HIs face is a mask of fury.

Frank still has the gun raised, pointed at the older man. “We’re leaving. We’re leaving, understand?”

“The fuck you are,” says the older man, and raises his shotgun.

The bullet doesn’t come from his gun. It comes from farther back—from behind the brown, old truck.

Karen doesn’t see the young man take the shot. All Karen sees is the sudden spray of blood against the side of the truck—a spatter of red.

And Frank falling.

All sound seems to die away for a few moments. She can only hear her own heartbeat, the loud thud of it against her ribs, the breath in her lungs.

Another bullet slams into the gravel beside her; she jerks away, pulling herself against the truck. It’s the only cover they have.

Frank is on one knee, head bowed. His breath comes in ragged bursts, but he raises the gun and pulls the trigger twice. One round hits the man in the arm—the second, in the head. He falls, shotgun falling from his fingers.

The younger man starts screaming. It’s a terrible noise, all rage and denial. “DAD, NO! DAD!”

Karen rushes to Frank’s side. He leans heavily against the truck, his expression drawn with pain. It takes her a moment to find the wound. He’s bleeding from his upper right thigh, red staining across his dark pants, down his leg. “Come on,” she says, and hauls his arm over her shoulders. They stagger together, and nearly fall. The younger man has stopped shooting for the moment and run to his father’s side.

It’s only a matter of time, though. Karen helps Frank toward the passenger seat. He still has the gun in one hand, and with his other, he reaches for a discarded jacket. He wads it up, presses it to the wound. Karen scrambles around the truck, jerking the other door open.

There’s a burst of sound and the mirror shatters. Karen lets out a cry and Frank lunges across the seat, wrapping one arm around her neck and head. With his other hand, he fires the gun—right through the truck’s rear window. The glass punctures, cracks spidering out from the bullet hole. Frank fires a second time. Karen tries to move, to put the truck in drive. It’s all she can do.

The truck jerks as her unsteady foot hits the gas too hard. Frank draws in a sharp breath, falling against his seat.

Karen yanks the truck back onto the road and drives as fast as she dares. For a good thirty seconds or so, all she can do is glance in the rearview mirror, then back at the road again. “How bad is it?” she asks.

Frank makes a sound that could almost be a laugh, but it breaks into a jagged gasp.

“Why is it,” he says through gritted teeth, “every goddamn time I go to Kentucky, someone shoots me?” He picks the jacket up a second time and presses it hard against his thigh. The wound is high up, only inches from his groin. And thank fuck for small mercies.

“How bad, Frank?” She repeats the question. It takes him a few moments to answer.

“No exit wound,” he says. “So it wasn’t one of the shotgun rounds. That thing would’ve torn a hole through me.” The truck hits a pothole and he winces.

The jacket is soaking through with blood. Karen can only look in brief glances—the trees and the rocky terrain have most of her attention. “Where’s the first aid kit?”

“Back of the truck,” he says.

She slows, begins to pull over.

“Keep driving,” he snarls.

“Frank—if the kit’s in the back—”

“Don’t stop.” He presses the jacket to his thigh, grimacing. “Don’t you dare stop, Karen.”

It’s a near thing. She wants to.

But then she glances into her mirror and sees what he does.

There is a truck in her rearview mirror, about seventy feet back. That small brown truck.

Karen can still hear the echoes of that young man’s screams for his father; they feel burned into her memory. It must have only taken a few moments for grief to harden into vengeance.

And now they’re being hunted.

She snarls wordlessly and floors the gas. It’s a straight stretch of road, but not for long. They’ll be descending down a slope, and she can see how the gravel curves and dips, how she’ll have to slow or risk a crash.

“Damn,” she says. “God dammit. They probably aren’t even—”

“Yeah,” says Frank, and he sounds so tired. “I know. We weren’t the first people they had to drive off, I bet. We were probably just the last straw.” He drags in an unsteady breath. “Didn’t—didn’t want to do it. But I couldn’t risk…” His voice trails off, but she understands.

If their places had been reversed, she probably would have fired, too.

The road curves downward, descends through the craggy hills and through forests. The trees are mostly without leaves, and the ground is a carpet of a brown. She tries to focus on those small details, on angle of the road and the feel of the engine. Looking into the rearview mirror too many times won’t help; it will only be a distraction.

She takes the turns as fast as she dares, the truck shuddering in protest when she hits the brakes a little too hard.

The young man probably knows these roads better than she does, but his truck is older. Slowly, she puts a bit of distance between them and their pursuer.

She isn’t sure how long she drives for—it feels like hours, but is probably only around twenty minutes—when they come to a fork in the road. The gravel gives way to pavement and it looks like they’ve come onto some rural highway.

The truck behind them hasn’t caught up yet; they’re out of sight. This might be her only chance to lose them.

She remembers reading some psychology article that says most people will turn right, if given a choice.

She goes left.

At least on pavement, she can edge her speed up to around sixty. She guns the gas, takes the bends with more ease. The landscape levels out, and they drive over a bridge and across another road. She turns left again. She keeps glancing back, but after another five minutes pass, she breathes a little easier.

She chances a look at Frank. His face is bleached of all color and the jacket around his thigh is soaked through.

Terror jolts through her. He’s worse off than she thought. “We need to pull over,” she says. “I’ll get the first—”

“No.” Even weakened, he sounds utterly immovable. “You keep driving.”

“You’re bleeding out, Frank!”

“Keep driving. If they catch up,” he says, the syllables softening. “Can’t fight like this. Too risky to stop. They’ll hurt you.” 

That’s what he’s worried about. Even when there’s a bullet lodged near his femoral artery and he looks like death warmed over, he’s still determined to protect her.

“Frank, I love you, but you’re being an idiot right now,” she says. “We are going to pull over and—”

She expects him to protest, but there’s only silence. She looks at him again.

The faux leather seat is slick with his blood. She can see it pooling beneath him, soaking into the stitching, dripping to the floor. He blinks several times, as if trying to clear his vision.

“Frank,” she says, voice breaking.

He mumbles something, but it’s inarticulate—more noise than words.

“Frank!”

She’s losing him.

No, no—she fucking isn’t.

She pulls the truck to the side of the road.

Damn the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll just go hide now, right? 
> 
> (Love you all. <3)


	9. Chapter 9

Karen has lost more than most.

She lost her mother to cancer, her brother and her father to her own bad decisions; she lost her only friend at Union Allied and Ben when took up the fight against Fisk and his corruption; she lost her friendship with Matt—and that one wasn’t her fault, she knows that now; she lost Ellison to the attack, and probably Foggy.

She’ll be damned before she loses Frank, too.

Karen grabs the fallen handgun and shoves it into the waistband of her pants—something she knows Frank would yell at her for doing, but he’s not awake to do so at the moment. She heads around to the back of the truck, pulling up the tarp to find their first aid kit.Their kit is inside an old toolbox, and it’s heavy and too cumbersome for her to maneuver easily. It’s why Frank shoved it in the back of the truck. She pulls it open, finds the scissors, and goes to work on Frank’s pants, cutting up the seam and revealing the wound beneath. She took first aid years ago, back when she was running the diner back in Vermont. Someone needed to know how to heimlich a customer. She still remembers the basics.

She pulls the sodden fabric away from the wound. It isn’t large, but the blood _just won’t stop._

She finds an unopened water bottle and tears the top off. She pours the clean water across the wound, watches debris and half-clotted blood run in rivulets down his thigh—along with more fresh blood. Nausea and fear have her belly in a knot but she won’t give into them.

Pouring rubbing alcohol over her hands isn’t the best way to sterilize them, but it’s all she can do. If the blood loss doesn’t send him into shock, infection will be her second biggest worry.

There are a few packets of clotting bandages in the kit. She tears one open, sets it against the wound, murmurs a quiet apology and presses down _hard_. A faint noise emerges from Frank’s mouth and noise. The bullet is still in there somewhere—and this must be agony. Blood seeps into the gauze.

She presses harder. Waits, then applies more bandages.

“Come on, Frank.” The words slip out. “You promised you were in this for the long haul, remember?”

His face is still. She can hear the slight whistle of the breath through his nose. 

It feels like an eternity passes; she keeps waiting, keeps the pressure on, then adds more gauze. Then she waits again, to see if the pristine white will soak through.

It doesn’t. Even so, she keeps the pressure on until her shoulders ache. Finally, she steps back. Closes her eyes and breathes through her nose so she won’t throw up.

The bleeding has stopped.

She is pretty sure no one’s listening, but she murmurs a quiet _thank you_ regardless.

She still has to add even more bandages and tape them in place. Once the wound has been bandaged, she surveys the rest of him. He looks pale, but his breathing is still steady. There isn’t much more can do—she can’t elevate the wound. It’s too high up on his thigh.

She uses a wet wipe to get most of the blood off of her hands, but her clothes are stained. Part of her wants to change into something clean and burn this outfit, but she doesn’t have enough clothes to do so. She’ll just have to scrub them later, hope that the brown smudges of Frank’s blood will come out.

And then she hears the sound of tires on pavement.

Terror burns through in a dizzying rush; she straightens so quickly she nearly hits her head on the truck’s roof. A curse slips out, and then she is moving as fast as she can. The handgun is still tucked into the back of her leggings; she snatches it free, checks the chamber, and then turns to face the road.

She can’t see the car coming—there’s a bend in the highway, trees obscuring the view. Her heart pounds so hard it hurts, but Karen puts the front of the truck between herself and any oncoming traffic. She rests the gun on the hood, using it to steady her hands.

There is no time to run, so she won’t.

She’s done running.

A car comes barreling around the corner and Karen’s jaw clenches. She doesn’t want to kill; the idea of pulling the trigger makes her feel ill, but she’ll do it. For Frank. For herself. They aren’t going to die here.

But the vehicle that makes the turn isn’t the brown truck. Instead, it’s black and heavy-set. Like an armored SUV. The windows are tinted black.

It doesn’t slow. The SUV simply angles left, avoiding the truck half-off, half-in the highway, then continues on.

The plates are government-issue. Karen can see that much. She watches as the SUV vanish around another bend and it doesn’t reappear.

She stands there, burning with unneeded adrenaline. Then she leans on the truck’s hood, shaking so hard she isn’t sure she can remain upright without the support. It’s fucked up. It’s all so fucked up—humanity is half-gone and they’re still trying to kill one another. Of course there are still good people in the world, people trying to do their best, but there are also just people who want to survive. Like herself, like that family.

And there’s nothing quite like survival to bring out the worst in people.

“Karen.” Frank’s faint voice slices into her thoughts. She jerks upright, strides back to the open truck door. His eyes are open, if a bit bleary.

“Hey.” The word is overfull; she packs too much relief into it. She leans over, brushes her fingers across his forehead. He’s colder than she would like. She reaches down and takes his hand, squeezing gently. “How’re you feeling?”

He blinks several times. “Alive.” His voice cracks on the word. “You?”

“I’m fine,” she says. She sees where his eyes go—to her shirt, crusted with brown and red. “You should drink something,” she says. “You lost a lot of blood.” She finds the rest of that water bottle and he downs a few swallows, hand trembling slightly as he holds it.

She checks the bandage; he hasn’t bled through it, which is encouraging. If she can keep him still, ensure this doesn’t reopen—if the bone wasn’t broken by the bullet and no infection settles in… he might be okay. But those are so many ‘ifs’ and the weight of them threatens to crush her. She takes another wet wipe and goes to work on his hands; he’s just as blood stained, and the sight is making her feel ill. He watches her work with half-lidded eyes.

“All right,” he says, and she knows that he means it as a reassurance rather than a question.

But it’s not. Nothing about this is all right.

“You need an IV,” she says. “Probably intravenous antibiotics. An X-ray to make sure the bullet didn’t shatter your leg bone.” She feels utterly useless and she hates it. “God. Frank.” She gives into a full-body shudder, lets it roll through her. She has been trying to push back all the thoughts of how much damage a single bullet could do. For all that she’s seen him do some impossible things, he’s just as human as she is… and just as mortal.

She digs into the first aid kit again for their stash of pills. They have quite a few; Frank took everything from Micro’s bunker. She finds an antibiotic and a codeine-based painkiller that must have come from Canada. Even looking at the label sends a hot twist of remembered bliss through Karen’s veins. The codeine will make this journey a little more pleasant for Frank—or at least, not as agonizing.

“I need you to swallow these,” she says, and touches his cheek.

He does, and he finishes off the water bottle. Then his hand drops back to his side as if this act has exhausted him.

Fluids, rest, and heat. She can do little more than that for him—she can only hope it’s enough. She tucks a quilt around him. Then she turns the heater up to its highest setting. She begins to move back to her seat, but to her surprise, he catches her wrist. “Frank?”

His eyes are a little glassy but focused on her. Always on her. She has to lean in to catch the words. “Hey,” he says. “S’okay.”

Tears that have been pricking at the corners of her eyes finally spill over. His thumb strokes beneath her eye, trying to brush the dampness away.

“You’re going to get better, you hear me?” she says. “That’s an order.”

The faintest hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Just rest, okay?” she says. “The drugs’ll kick in soon. And…”

She isn’t sure how to finish that sentence. She can’t take care of him here. She needs a place to do this properly. She needs a table, a bed, or—

A cabin.

The thought makes her fingers jerk with surprise. They’re so close. Maybe five or six hours away. Why couldn’t she take him there? Her shaky fingers open the map and she studies it for a few minutes, taking note of the rural roads.

He’s the one who started this journey.

Maybe it’s fitting she be the one to finish it.

She gets out, refills the gas with their spare canister, then glances up and down the deserted highway. Another look at the map, then she nods. She has her bearings. She pulls back onto the road, turns right, and begins to drive.

She’s never been to Kentucky. The landscape is wide and so very green. Their path takes them through fields, past a few scattered houses, but no bigger towns. Frank’s penciled route avoids them, and she trusts his judgement. She turns the radio on low, lets the static fall into lulling white noise. It helps drown out the whistle of wind through the truck’s back window. Luckily the safety glass seems to be holding—the bullet hole is surrounded by cracks, but the entire window hasn’t shattered.

She drives for three hours before she has to pull over. The fields have given way to forests—a glance at the map confirms this is some kind of state park. She pulls the truck to the side, tops off the gas tank and ducks behind a clump of ferns to pee. When she’s finished, she checks on Frank. The codeine must have kicked in, because the tension has eased from his features. 

It’s only now, that the truck is silent, that she realizes how much she’s come to depend on his conversation. She wants to talk to him, work her way through this dilemma with him. He isn’t simply her survival partner or her lover—and she cringes at the latter word, even if it’s only in her head. Frank is one of her closest friends. Perhaps the closest, if not for Foggy. He is the one she talks to, confides in. He’s become part of her life in a way she never expected—no simply a vigilante lurking the shadows, but the person who helps drive those shadows away. His absence, even if he’s only a few feet away, feels wrong.

Their journey takes them east into the Appalachian Mountains. The scenery shifts again, from gently sloping hills to ridges and valleys thick with greenery. There are rocky outcroppings and a few glimpses of nearby creeks. It is beautiful and Karen wishes she knew more about the area. It has an untamed, remote feel to it, as if modern life never quite managed to settle here. She can see why a man who wanted to go into hiding sought shelter in a place such as this.

She hopes it will be a shelter for them, too.

Around three in the afternoon, she begins checking the map more often. They’re on the right highway, and she has to slow at every intersecting road to check its name. Without GPS or even a real address, she’s going all by Frank’s memory. There was a gate, she remembered him saying. A wooden gate, a fence. It’s about ten miles after crossing some small gravel road called Laurel Ridge.

She leans over the steering wheel, trying to peer at the forest all around them. She has to find it. 

They pass Laurel Ridge, and Karen checks the mileage. Ten miles. Just ten more.

She is keyed up with fear and hope, and it feels like every passing moment takes far too long. She can’t quite gauge the passing of time or distance; she has to keep checking the odometer.

The road bends gently, and then she sees it.

A dark wooden gate. And there’s no road beyond it.

It’s by design—there is no driveable path leading to the cabin. For security, it’s a good two mile hike from the highway. She remembers him talking about it—how that’s one of the good things about the location. A person can’t simply drive up and attack.

Now, those two miles may as well be fifty.

Karen pulls the truck up to the gate. The sound of gravel and dirt beneath the tires rouses Frank a little, and Karen gives him another dose of codeine. The first will be wearing off, and he’s going to need it for this. While she waits for the painkiller to kick in, she goes to the back of the truck. This isn’t going to be easy, but it’s the only thing she can think of.

Frank can’t walk. She can’t carry him. Not conventionally, anyways.

She finds rope and one of the cot mattresses. Luckily, there isn’t a lot of undergrowth in this area; the tree canopy is too thick too allow for it.

She half-carries Frank from the truck and onto the mattress. He’s aware enough to try and help, at least for now. The painkillers have made him clumsy, but at least she doesn’t have to worry about the agony she’ll cause him if she jostles too much. The mattress has looped handles, meant to be tied to a bed frame, but they’ll work for this, too. She ties a rope to the mattress, then knots the ends. She’ll need something to hold onto. “Where are we?” Frank says, blinking at the forest.

“Almost there,” she says.

She takes what they’ll need in the immediate future—water, some food, bandages, medicine, her gun, a knife—and crams them into a backpack. She takes a small reflective blanket from the first aid kit and tucks it around Frank. There is a bite of chill to the air, but she doesn’t don a jacket. She won’t need one in a few moments.

There’s no time to hide the truck. So she locks it and hopes for the best.

She stands there for a few heartbeats, readying herself for the journey to come. Then she reaches down, takes hold of the ropes. It’s like a sled, she tells herself. She used to drag Kevin through the snow when they were kids. This is just the same.

Except Frank’s a hell of a lot heavier, the rope bites into her hands, and the leaf-covered ground doesn’t ease her passage.

Doesn’t matter, though. She’s going to do this.

She begins to walk. After a few dozen steps, all she can hear is the ragged breath in her lungs and the whisper of leaves beneath the mattress. She tries to focus on the burn in her shoulders and calves, letting the physicality of the task numb out her thoughts.

She has to stop after ten minutes; her shoulders are on fire and she wants to make sure they’re headed in the right direction. She checks the map, then a compass. She is pretty sure they’re heading in the right direction, but all of the trees look the same and she’s spent too many years living in the city. She yearns for street signs and bustle and GPS. She wants to step into a darkened coffee shop and order overpriced espresso. She wants bookstores and her office and the smell of printer ink and dry-cleaned clothes.

She’ll probably never have any of those things again.

She grits her teeth against the sense of loss and starts walking again. This—this is what she does have. She has her determination, a truck full of survival supplies, and Frank.

She has Frank.

The forest passes slowly; it’s too quiet but for her ragged breathing. Blisters spring up on her palms and she knows her back will ache for days to come after this journey.

Still, she keeps going.

The sun begins to fall to the west, casting long shadows amidst the trees. Evening will be coming on soon, and she pushes herself harder. When the mattress snags on a fallen branch, she yanks it free. When the ground slopes upward, she tries to ignore the protesting muscles in her arms.

Finally, she crosses a ridge and looks down.

A cabin is perhaps fifty feet away. She wants to fall to her knees in relief. But she keeps going.

The door is unlocked. She wonders if Frank’s friend left it that way, or if someone came by afterward. She steps inside and sees the layer of dust across the floor; no one has been here in months.

When Frank said they were going to a cabin, Karen imagined something like the places for rent up in Vermont: one-room blocks of dark wood, bunk beds, and just enough space to store a suitcase. No luxuries, no real furniture—just a place for hunters to sleep.

But this cabin looks like someone’s _home._

There is a small kitchen, a living space with a wood fireplace and rough-hewn table. There’s even a rocking chair beside the fire. Glass windows and curtains. The bedroom is a separate space, although there’s no door. The bed is a full, thank God. The bed is even made up with a worn brown quilt. It seems that while Frank’s friend was fine living off the grid, he still wanted a comfortable place to sleep.

She helps Frank to his feet, half-stumbling, half-dragging him through the cabin. He puts his hand out, steadying himself on the walls as they go.

They make it to the bed, and Karen all but dumps him into it. She winces, but he doesn’t seem fazed. She grabs a few pillows and stacks them beneath his thigh, elevating it as best she can. She throws the reflective blanket over him before adding the brown quilt. It’s probably overkill, but she’s not taking any chances.

Frank gazes up at the ceiling. “Karen?”

“It’s okay. We’re home,” she says an is surprised to find she means it. They’re not leaving here, not any time soon.

Then she sinks to the wooden floor, more exhausted than she’s ever felt in her life.

She made it.

They made it.

* * *

She is too tired to do much more than the basics: she eats a meal of jerky and dried fruit, doesn’t really taste it, and then goes about securing the cabin. There is a lock on the door—several, in fact. She remembers what Frank said about his friend coming here to hide. Her fingers trace over the deadbolt and chain, and she wonders if these helped him feel safer.

She doubts it.

She spends the rest of the evening sitting with Frank. The bandages are holding, at least. She wonders if the bullet nicked the femoral artery or perhaps every wound so close to the torso bleeds that much. Either way, the bullet is staying in there. She doesn’t have the knowledge or expertise to remove it.

That night, she reads aloud from _Watership Down._ She brings a kerosene lantern into the bedroom, along with their blankets and pillows. Her back is to the wall, pillows softening the hard edges. The bed is big enough for both of them. She gives Frank another dose of painkillers and he drifts in and out of awareness. He has his head pillowed on her lap, and one of her hands toys with his hair, savoring the gentle warmth of his skin. She can still remember how cold he felt in the truck, the pallor that seemed to drain all the life out of him. She isn’t sure if he’s listening, but the reading is a comfort to her.

She cradles the book with her free hand, reading by the flickering light of the lantern.

“ _All the world will be your enemy,_ ” she murmurs. “ _Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you._ ”

She loves that line. Always has. Even before it felt like death was always at her heels.

Frank stirs beneath her touch. “Still doesn’t sound like a kids book,” he says blearily.

She squeezes her eyes shut for a few moments. Half-conscious, wounded, drugged, and he’s still on about this. He’s the most stubborn person she’s ever met, and she loves him for it. She leans down, blonde hair a curtain between them and the world. She kisses his forehead, once, twice, then straightens. “How’re you feeling?”

“Stoned.” His fingers trail across the blankets.

“Well that’s what happens when you take codeine on an empty stomach.” She reaches for the water bottle, and he drinks half before giving it back.

His voice is a little clearer when he says, “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

He grimaces. “It gets a little blurry in the truck.”

She lets out a breath. “You lost consciousness. After telling me to keep driving regardless of whether you bled out. You’re never doing that to me again, understand? I—God. I can’t close my eyes without seeing you on the ground.”

He looks unrepentant. “Those people never caught up?”

“No. Only saw one other car on the road and it wasn’t them.”

“How’d you get me here?”

“Tied you to a mattress and dragged you through the forest. You’re probably going to have more bruises.”

He makes a soft sound, almost a laugh. “That’s my girl.” He catches her hand, kisses her palm. “They won’t, you know.”

The sudden change in subject has her confused. “Who—won’t?”

“Catch you,” he says. “A thousand enemies and they won’t ever catch you.” His syllables are just a little soft, smudged by exhaustion.

“That so?”

“You’ll run circles around them all,” he says, eyes slipping closed. And there’s something in the way he says it—like he’s speaking a truth of the universe. And maybe he _needs_ it to be truth, the idea that Karen Page will never fall to any of her enemies. She kisses him one last time, lingering on the scar along his hairline.

She reads a few more pages, then blows out the lantern.

* * *

She sleeps a few inches away from Frank; she doesn’t want to roll over and hurt him. Even so, when she wakes in the morning, he has curled himself around her. She has to maneuver carefully, silently, to slip from the bed without disturbing him.

She has things to do.

First, she takes stock of the cabin. It looks like the man who was living here simply walked out and never returned. There are still some supplies: she finds some sealed packages of food, tools, and what looks like a hunter’s bow in a nearby shed. There’s also an outhouse a short walk away. Seeing that is a relief; she had mental images of peeing in the woods for the rest of her life. Then she finds an old-fashioned well pump close to the cabin, with a tank beside it—probably water storage, but she doesn’t know how to work it. They’ll figure it out later. In the meantime, she goes back into the cabin, finds a clean bucket, and manually pumps it full.

She brings Frank a cup of water, a granola bar, and more medication. He looks better; some color has returned to his face and his gaze is steady. “This stuff fucks me up,” he says, with a glance at the codeine. “I’ll pass.”

“You’re just going to be in pain.”

“I’ve had worse than this.” He shifts on the bed, straightening a little. “I don’t want to be that out of it again.”

“Fine, but take the antibiotic.”

He does.

“I’m going to bring more of our things from the truck,” she says. “Then I’m going to move it—see if I can cover it with some branches or something, so it won’t be obvious from the road.”

He nods. “Good thinking. Rather not advertise that someone’s living here.” He hesitates. “You should retrace the steps you took to get here. No detours.”

“Why?”

“Because Gunner—the man who was living here—was a paranoid bastard who left traps throughout the woods,” he says. “He was sure that people were coming for him. He was right, in the end.” A flash of something like regret crosses his face, but then he shakes his head. “We’re lucky you didn’t run into anything on the way here. Just—be careful, yeah?”

“I’ll keep an eye out.” She leans over, kisses his cheek. “Promise me that you’ll stay in bed.”

“I—”

“I know you,” she says. “You want to get up and help, but all you’ll do is tear that wound open. We don’t have enough bandages for you to keep re-injuring yourself. If I have to tie you to the bed, I will.”

His lips quirk. “Getting nostalgic for old times?”

She smiles, just a little. 

“Stay,” she says. Then adds, because she’s a little bit ruthless, “For me. Please.”

She is right—the plea seems to cut through his stubbornness. He lets out a breath, settles back against the pillows, and gazes up at her. “Take your gun with you,” he says quietly. “All right? Something happens, fire it into the air.” The rest of the sentence goes unsaid: _And I’ll come._

She nods.

The rest of the day, she stays busy. She has to bring their things to the cabin; it takes trip after trip, and after three hours, her arms are shaking and fingers a bit numb. When she’s carried as much as she can, she drives the truck into the underbrush and hides it. She takes the keys, locks it, and walks away. It feels odd to just leave the truck behind, but hopefully they won’t need it for a while. Eventually, they’ll probably have to scavenge more supplies—but for now, Karen is looking forward to remaining in one place.

And the cabin is surprisingly nice. She takes the rugs outside, shakes the dust out of them, then leaves them hanging on a few tree branches while she unearths a broom and goes to town on the floors. The place smells of dirt and damp, and she hopes a few good fires in the stove will burn out some of the chill. There is still some cut wood and kindling tucked alongside the cabin, kept dry beneath an awning. She hasn’t built a fire in years, but she manages.

She wipes down every surface she can, scrubs the cupboards clean, and finally, brings the rugs back inside. Even the windows are washed and when she’s done, the place looks cute. It could almost pass for one of those Airbnb listings in the middle of the woods. “Not bad, Page,” she murmurs to herself.

She checks on Frank every few hours. She helps him to the outhouse—his arm around her shoulders and hers around his waist. He looks vaguely irritated with himself. “You’re doing everything around here,” he says, as they hobble outside. “I feel goddamn useless.”

“I need stuff to do,” she replies. “And as soon as you’re healed, you can chop firewood or something. You’d look hot as a lumberjack.”

He snorts. “Just keeping me around for my looks, yeah?”

“You’ve figured me out.” She strains a little to maneuver him through the front door. Once he’s situated back in the bed again, there’s a fresh sheen of sweat at his brow and he looks drained. “Sorry, but I need to change the bandages.”

“Don’t have to do that,” he says, as she picks up the first aid supplies. “I can manage.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead she says, “Just tell me what to do. I don’t have as much experience with this.”

He nods.

She pulls on a pair of disposable gloves and eases the bandages away. It takes a bit of tugging and she winces when the bloodied gauze is lifted away.

“Not bad,” Frank says. She isn’t sure how he sounds so calm; her stomach is quivery with nausea. “You cleaned it before bandaging it the first time?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “The bullet—it’s still in there.”

“Not the first bit of shrapnel in me.” He shrugs. “As long as it’s not pressing against anything vital, it’s fine.”

The wound is slightly inflamed, but there’s no redness or other signs of infection. The antibiotics are probably keeping the worst at bay. Frank talks her through packing the wound, and she does so. Once it’s covered again, she breathes a little easier. She throws the bloodied bandages into the wood stove.

She’s at a bit of a loss for what to do next—if she were home, she’d open up her laptop and check the news. Get on Twitter. Email Ellison. Now, she feels at a loss.

When they were traveling, all Karen could concentrate on was survival. Now that she’s at a standstill, she has to figure out how to _live_ in this new world.

She isn’t quite sure how to do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They finally made it to the cabin! Only took over 40k. (Can you imagine I thought this fic would be like maybe 5k? 8k at the most? That worked out well.)
> 
> Hugs to all of my commenters. I adore you.


	10. Chapter 10

Frank is a terrible patient.

He knows it. He’s been told often enough. Curtis used to say that if he ever went gray, all of those hairs would be courtesy of Frank Castle. _You get up when you break a bone,_ Curt would say. _You forget medication. You used your splinted arm to hit someone._

_They hit me first._

_Because you left your goddamn bunk, Frank._

Frank misses Curtis fiercely. He misses his friend’s good humor and lack of tolerance for bullshit. He would have liked him to meet Karen—maybe they will meet, someday. If everything calms down, if Curt lived through the attack. If there is any kind of justice in the world, Curtis is alive.

So Frank knows what kind of patient he is: the worst. He rips stitches, re-breaks bones, keeps going even when he knows he shouldn’t. But this time, he stays in bed. He knows Karen is worried—he can see it in her face every time she looks at him. He remembers only fragments of what happened after the firefight. Rapid blood loss is like being dragged under deep water; everything is muted, soft, and heavy. Every movement takes more effort, every breath is difficult.

What he remembers most clearly is Karen’s voice. He can’t recall exact words—only the tone: sharp with fear.

He hasn’t ever heard her that scared before. Not even when there was a suicide bomber at her back or killers coming for her in a diner. She has faced death countless times and the prospect didn’t seem to slow her. But clearly the incident in the truck has shaken her.

He understands. Of course he does.

She has lost family. They both have—and so the idea of losing one another… well, the prospect of his own death isn’t overly worrying, but the thought of Karen hurt makes his fingers itch for a weapon.

He shakes his head. They are both fucked if anything happens to one another. Him, probably more so. He’s self-aware enough to realize that he won’t survive the loss of another person he loves. Karen is the stronger of the two—she would find her way. She’d hurt, she’d bleed, but she would make it through. She would find other people, make new friends.

Even so, he doesn’t want to cause her more pain. So he stays in bed. He takes the antibiotics she brings him. He’s normally a terrible patient—but for Karen, he’ll _try_.

He lasts two days.

Two days until he feels dirty and restless and ready to tear his way out of the cabin with his bare hands. So he swings his legs over the side of the bed and carefully stands on his own.

The wound hurts, but the pain is the dull ache of healing muscle. He flexes carefully, testing movement and strength. The leg will be weak for some time and the scar will be an ugly knot, but he can walk. He’s lucky the bullet missed bone.

He takes a few steps, and when his leg holds, he strides out of the bedroom.

Karen is coming inside, carrying a few pieces of wood.

“You’re up,” she says.

“Can’t let the muscles start to atrophy,” he answers.

Karen has done a good job with the cabin. She moved most of their things into it—the white roses and the pot are both on the windowsill. She put her their few pictures on one of the shelves: herself, Murdock, and Franklin Nelson, and the other is of himself and his family. On that same shelf are the few books they own—a book of poetry and _Watership Down_. The cupboards are filled with food; the floors are swept clean of dust and fallen leaves; a fresh bucket of fresh water rests on the kitchen table.

“Pumped it from the well,” Karen says, when she sees him looking. “And that’s an experience I never thought I’d have. I feel very little house on the prairie. I think there’s a water storage unit out back but I couldn’t figure it out, so I just put some in this bucket. I hope it’s safe to drink because we ran out of any other water.”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Gunner was living out here by himself, and he had to get water from somewhere.”

The water tastes fine. Pretty good, in fact. He drains a cup and then another.

Blood loss always leaves him thirsty.

“All right,” she says. “There’s something you should see, if you’re able to walk around.” There’s an odd tone in her voice, one that makes him look up sharply.

“It’s not… bad,” she says, but not like she believes it.

“Show me,” he says.

She leads him outside, and he takes a moment to inhale. The scents of the forest are unfamiliar; it smells like greenery and damp earth. He is still too used to the sights and sounds of New York: the clamor of honking taxis, the scent of sun on pavement, and the sense of thriving life. Here, everything is quiet and still. It sets his nerves on edge.

Karen leads him around the side of the house to the shed. There’s a chain and padlock around the door and that makes him frown. Karen pulls a key from her pocket. “Found it in a drawer,” she says. She slips the chain free, carefully setting it aside before pulling the door open. It takes a few tries; earth has built up around the door. The interior of the shed is dark and windowless, and for a moment, he can’t see what is inside.

His pupils adjust—and he draws in a breath.

Weapons.

He takes a step into the shed, reaching out. His fingers rest on the barrel of a P90, across the metal of a hunting bow, then trail downward to a cardboard box. He knows what it’ll contain even before he opens it. Boxes of ammo—organized by caliber. There’s another box with looks to be a few stun grenades. It’s not all weaponry; he finds a crate with a few miscellaneous items: a plastic bag with tubing attached, a box of matches, and a ukulele, of all things.

“You don’t look surprised,” Karen says.

He steps out of the shed. His leg is beginning to burn, a reminder that he shouldn’t push himself too much. “Not the first armory I’ve seen in an abandoned shed in the woods.”

“I—I don’t even want to know.” She shakes her head. “We can sort through it later. I’m going to boil some water, see if I can’t at least get a little clean. I haven’t found a tub or anything around here, so no idea how your friend was bathing.”

“Don’t know that he was.”

“Charming.”

She ends up boiling some water on their wood stove, using a dampened wash cloth to scrub herself clean. Frank forgoes the warm water all together and simply dumps a bucketful over himself right from the well. It’s bracing—a shudder runs through him, but it’s worth it. They use sparing amounts of soap and shampoo, and he doesn’t yet consider what they’ll do when they run out.

Once they’re finished, Karen wraps a clean towel around herself and begins wringing out her hair. Her skin is flushed from the hot water and scrubbing, and she looks undone and beautiful.

She catches him looking. “What?”

“Hey, come here,” he says, and pulls her into his arms.

“Frank,” she says, warningly. “You’re not—”

“I’m fine, Karen.”

They haven’t touched often in the last few days—and every time it’s been about him. Helping him stand, changing the bandages, checking him for a fever. He wants to touch her. He knows what Karen is feeling because he’s felt it all himself: the itch beneath his skin, the restless nerves. He felt it every time he came home after his deployment ended. After weeks fighting for your life—and for the lives of those depending on you—it’s hard to settle back into a sense of safety. He also knows how touch can ground a person; he never really felt like himself until Maria or Frankie or Lisa hugged him so hard it hurt.

He kisses her forehead, then her cheek, then her mouth. He can fell the lingering tension in her body—and he understands. Fear takes some time to flush out.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she answers. She sounds a bit uncertain, as if unsure where he wants to take this.

Preferably, he would like to take her to the bed and make her forget everything beyond the walls of the cabin. But he’s not quite up for that yet.

He does take a few steps toward the bed, their fingers twined. “What is this?” she says, but she doesn’t protest.

“You keep saying I need rest,” he replies. “And you’ve been running yourself ragged for days. Can we just—I don’t know. Lie down for a while?”

She blinks. “You want to take a nap?”

“Yeah.”

“You never struck me as a nap sort of guy.”

“I think the world has gone to shit,” he says, “and that entitles us to a nap or two.”

The corners of her mouth lift. “Blunt way of putting it.”

“If you were expecting poetry,” he says, “you picked the wrong man.”

Some of the tension vanishes from her posture. She leans in, her brow touching his. “I was never that into poetry.” Her hands come to rest on his bare chest, settling there. “All right.” She takes a step toward the bed and he follows her. The sunlight from the window shines across her bare shoulders, illuminating a few freckles. He wants to lean in and taste them, see if he can’t leave a few new marks—and some of his thoughts must show on his face because Karen’s eyes narrow.

“If you tear that wound open again,” she says, a note of steel in her voice, “I am going to tie you to the bed.”

“Promises, promises.” He adores the shiver that goes through her at his words. He gently pulls her onto the bed, and she settles beside him, towel slipping from her damp skin. Goosebumps rise on her thighs, up her arms, and he reaches for a blanket, pulling it over them both. His hand skims up her arm, to her neck, and she tilts her head to give him better access. 

The amount of trust in that gesture will never fail to amaze him. Because she _knows._ She has seen what he can do—both in pictures and first hand. She has no illusions about the kind of man he is, and she’s still here. More than that, she’s fought to keep him here.

He almost tells her in that moment. Almost lets the words bubble to the surface.

_I love you._

But he still isn’t sure what ghosts might rise up with those words—hers or his, it doesn’t matter—so he bites them back.

He never thought he’d have this again. Sometimes he thinks he never should have had it once—but he learned a long time ago that the universe isn’t fair. All he can do is try to hold onto this. To her.

* * *

A month slips by.

In that time, they work on the cabin. Frank fixes things so that they have a workable kitchen. Karen has never cooked on a wood stove, but after years of helping out at her family’s diner, she’s good at improvising. They still have a good amount of dehydrated foods—and Karen begins planting the seeds that they bought at the camp. With winter coming on, the small planters will need to remain indoors and near a window, but they need some kind of fresh food. Instant eggs and mashed potatoes are beginning to taste like chalk in her mouth.

She and Frank figure out the water tank in the back, and Frank does laundry while Karen washes dishes. Together, they hang the clean garments from a line strung between two oaks. The clean sheets smell like forest and autumn air.

She is sleeping pretty well—better than she ever thought she could in a cabin. But then again, she’s working hard enough that most evenings she falls into a dreamless sleep almost as soon as her head touches the pillow.

One night, there’s a clamor. Karen flinches awake to the noise of claws on the side of the cabin and to Frank sitting up beside her. “What’s that?” she asks, groggy.

Frank keeps a shotgun beside their bed, and he reaches for it. “Not sure.”

Karen’s sleep-fogged mind conjures up images of wolves and big cats. She isn’t sure what kind of wildlife lives in Appalachian mountains.

The sound comes again and Frank tenses, goes to the window and peers out. “What do you see?”

“Too damn dark,” he mutters. “Whatever’s out there…”

The sound comes again and Frank makes as if to head toward the door. Karen seizes his arm. “Oh, no. You are not—”

“I’m just going to see—”

“I did not save you from a gunshot wound only to watch you get mauled by a bear.”

“It’s probably not a bear,” he says.

“Are you sure about that?”

He hesitates.

Neither of them get any more sleep that night: Frank sits on the edge of the bed, gun across his lap. Karen is curled up beneath the blankets, watching the dark space of the window. The next morning, when they venture outside, Karen finds a series of tracks alongside the cabin. They don’t seem big enough for whatever creature made that racket.

“Okay,” says Karen. “I’m never going to complain about sewer raccoons again.”

Frank lets out a hoarse laugh. “Gonna take some getting used to, isn’t it? Being out here.”

It does take time. There is no take-out, no electricity, no ease of life. Everything takes longer and requires more effort. One good thing though—when he goes through the shed, Frank finds a plastic container with some kind of spout attached. “Camp shower,” he says. “This was how Gunner was getting clean. We can rig it up a tree. It’ll be cold, but—”

“It’s still a shower,” she says, smiling.

Frank has set about taking down the traps surrounding the cabin. It’s slow-going, as his leg is still injured and he’s recovering from the blood loss. Karen finds a few iron supplements amidst the vitamins and medicines they took from Micro’s bunker and insists that he take them.

It takes a few weeks for Frank to heal. The wound settles into an angry red mark that Karen brushes a kiss to before moving onto more interesting parts of his anatomy. Going down on her boyfriends has never been Karen’s favorite activity, but Frank is a different story—he’s so damned careful with her, one hand holding her hair and the other clenched in the bedsheets. And maybe she shouldn’t be turned on by the fact that she has the Punisher on his back and at her mercy—but there’s a small part of her that revels in it. He trusts her with every part of himself—his body, his memories, his life—and she is determined to live up to his belief in her.

And the way he looks at her afterward—it’s worth a sore jaw.

“Jesus fuck,” he rasps. He sounds wrecked, which she takes no small amount of pride in. She settles herself on his left side, twining her fingers through his hair. It’s getting longer, and she wonders if he’ll grow it the way he did when he first returned to her.

“You need a moment to catch your breath?” she says, smiling.

“Yeah, laugh it up.” He reaches over, hand cradling the back of her head. He kisses her hard—which is also something else most of her boyfriends wouldn’t do post-blowjob. When he pulls back, she touches his chin.

“Your beard is growing out again,” she says.

“I could shave.”

“Don’t. I like it.” She rests her head on his shoulder. “Reminds me of when you came by my apartment.”

“You mean when you thought I was homeless?”

She cuffs him lightly on the arm. “That’s not it. It was the first time I’d seen you and you looked… better. Like you weren’t made of bruises and cheap diner coffee.”

“That’s a pretty low bar.”

She laughs into his neck. “God. Stop being an ass. I like the beard. I don’t mind if you keep it. And it’s not like I’ve managed to shave since this whole thing began.” She hasn’t touched any skincare or a razor in weeks now. Her lips are a little chapped and she yearns for moisturizer. She still misses the comforts of her old life.

He snorts. His fingers trail down her stomach, to the hair between her legs. “You hear me complaining?”

She’s about to make a quippy reply, but then his finger curves up and _in_ and all the words fly from her mouth, replaced with a soft, “ _Oh_.” She has seen him do all sorts of things with those hands: dismantle a handgun, put together a tent, take a man apart with a few blows. It stands to reason he’d be good at this, too. Her head tips back, eyes fluttering closed and a gasp dragging air into her lungs.

The discussion lapses into silence.

He does keep the beard, though.

* * *

It’s not all easy. Living with another person—living with anyone, really—comes with its challenges. The cabin is small, meant for one. And both Karen and Frank are used to keeping their own company. Sometimes Karen feels rubbed raw by the constant presence of another person. Finally, one day, when she can’t take any more of it, she says, “I’m going to take a walk.”

They’ve been slowly scouting out parts of the forest—making their own map as they go. It’s slow work, but necessary.

Frank grunts in answer; he has their guns spread out on the table, an old rag in one hand as he cleans them. Karen takes her coat; autumn is giving way to winter, and soon there’ll be snow on the ground. She slips outside, takes a breath. It feels good to be on her own, at least for a while. She takes her notebook; she has filled up most of the pages by now.

If the world ever manages to right itself, she’s going to have a hell of a book to write.

The forest is beautiful; stark branches reaching toward an iron-gray sky. The ground is scattered with brown oak leaves and she glimpses squirrels and even a rabbit. She hasn’t tried setting snares yet, although she knows she should start soon. They’re going to need fresh protein. But somehow it doesn’t seem right to both be reading _Watership Down_ and eating rabbit for dinner. It’s too morbid.

She makes her way east, across a few ridges of forest, and downward. There’s a stream running through sheer, craggy rocks. She follows the water for a ways, wondering if perhaps it will widen into a creek. Fish would be nice, if they could rig up a way to catch them. She wonders what her friends and family would think of her right now: walking beside a stream, alone but for a notebook and her own thoughts. There is little left of Karen Page, New York reporter in her at the moment—and even less of Karen Page, diner waitress and teenage drug dealer.

She isn’t quite sure who she is now. And that’s just as unsettling as the knowledge that this could be the rest of her life—scouring out an existence in the wilds, trying to find food and keep her home safe. Survival was easy, but this… this is not.

She walks a few miles down the stream, then retraces her steps. The days are shortening, and she has to pick up her pace to return back to the cabin before evening settles into the woods. Even so, by the time the cabin is in view, it’s nearly full dark. The cabin looks bright and warm and welcoming—and she smiles a little at seeing it. The time out did her good.

Then she catches sight of Frank—striding around the back of the cabin, toward the woods. He has a lantern in one hand, a knife holstered at his belt, and a backpack over one shoulder. “Frank,” she calls, and he rounds on her.

He walks toward her like—well. It reminds her of that day when they first met in the hospital, when he was trying to kill Grotto. Every step is purposeful, and his face is set in hard lines. “Where have you been?” he says, and his voice is all gravel.

His tone makes her hackles rise. “I went for a walk. I told you.”

“You were gone for hours.” His jaw works. “You can’t just—”

“I can’t what, Frank?” This time, its her voice that cracks out. “You’re not my keeper, Frank. I still get to decide where I go, what I do.”

“Not if you’re going to be stupid about it.”

“What are you going to do?” she snaps. “Keep me locked in the cabin?”

“Kar—”

“No,” she says. “You don’t get to decide that for me. If we’re in this together, you have to trust me—or you don’t. And if I say I’m going for a walk, that’s no reason to get pissed and yell at me.”

She walks around him, shoulders tight and jaw clenched, and heads into the cabin. She hears him follow, shutting the door behind them both.

They don’t talk that night. She eats a dinner that she doesn’t really taste and he doesn’t eat at all.

The thing about living in such a small space is there is no avoiding one another. Karen slips into bed, taking up her place beside the wall. He always gets in after, and he does so now. Normally, he would reach out and take her hand, press a kiss to her hair or spoon around her. Now—now he turns on his back away from her.

Fine. Fucking fine. If he’s going to be an asshole, she doesn’t feel obligated to explain herself. Closing her eyes, she tries to will herself to sleep.

It takes a while. She falls into a restless sleep—and then around three in the morning, she wakes to Frank having a nightmare. He thrashes upright, chest heaving. She hears him curse under his breath, then scrub a hand across his eyes.

She sits up, too. “Frank?” All of the anger has left her.

He doesn’t look at her. “Sorry.” He always apologizes after a nightmare, and she always tells him not to.

“It’s fine,” she says.

“No, not for—this. I’m sorry I snapped at you.” It takes a few moments for his breathing to steady out, then he says, “I don’t know I’ve found all the traps.”

She frowns. “What?”

He is staring at the ceiling; she can just make out his profile in the dim moonlight. “All of Gunner’s traps,” he says. “I’ve been trying to clear them out, but it’s autumn. All the fallen leaves—I don’t—I’m not sure—”

She understands, then.

“You thought I’d been hurt out there,” she says softly.

A moment. Then he says, “Yeah.”

She remembers how he looked when she returned home—lantern in his hand, knife at his belt, and a backpack slung around his shoulder. It was probably full of first aid supplies. He was going out there to look for her, only to have Karen stroll out of the woods like nothing was wrong.

And nothing _was_ wrong. But she understands. If it were him—if he left and she thought he may be hurt… she would probably panic, too.

She reaches over, places one hand on his cheek and tilts his face toward her. “Hey,” she says. “Look at me.”

He meets her gaze.

“I’m not going to stay in this cabin all the time,” she says. “I can’t. It’s just not who I am. And I’ll probably end up smothering you with a pillow if I don’t have some time alone.”

That gets her the smallest twitch of his eyebrows. Even if he doesn’t say the words, she can still hear them: _Yeah, you’re real terrifying, Page._

“But if you show me what parts of the forest you’ve cleared, I can stick to those,” she continues.

The hard line of his mouth softens. “Okay.” He glances away for a few moments. “I should’ve known you’d be fine. Sorry I snapped at you.”

“We’re living in tight quarters,” she says. “It’s bound to happen.”

He exhales a long breath, then his arm is around her. The last of the tension between them drains away and Karen tucks herself against his side, breathing in the scent of him. He smells like fresh cut wood and smoke. “I’ve been thinking of maybe adding onto the shed,” he says. “It’s small, but if I could just extend one of the walls a little, it might be a good workshop.”

She smiles. “Workshop? Or man cave?”

“Both.” He doesn’t even bother denying it. “I thought if you needed space, then I could just go there. Give you some time.”

“Can you do that? Add onto a building?”

His fingers comb through her hair. It feels nice. “I worked construction after… well. After.” He doesn’t elaborate and she doesn’t need him to. After his crusade ended.

So he did find it. His after.

And never once did he reach out to her—not until the world fell apart around them. And he probably never would have, if not for the end of the world. He admitted as much the night they first had sex. They probably wouldn’t be together if life continued on as normal. That thought slices deeper than she expects.

“Why didn’t you ever call?” she says, unable to hide the note of hurt in her voice.

His fingers go still. For a heartbeat, she thinks he won’t reply. “Could give you a bullshit answer,” he says. “I could say it’s because you deserve better, because you do. Or that being with me is what got my wife killed, which is also true. I could give you a thousand reasons for why I never called, and they’d all be the kind of lies that sound a hell of a lot like truth.”

She feels the rise and fall of his chest. It feels a little unsteady.

“Truth is,” he says, “I was scared.”

“You,” she says, with an incredulous little laugh. “Scared?”

“Shitless.” His fingers tighten a little in her hair. “Of what you are—of what you could be.”

“And now?” She’s almost afraid of the answer. She knows how dangerous the truth can be.

“You still scare the shit out of me,” he says. “But I’m never letting go of you, Karen Page, not unless you tell me to fuck off.”

_Use two hands and never let go._

She breathes easier. “Okay,” she says quietly. She doesn’t tell him that she’s never going to tell him to go—because he’ll only scoff and say something along the lines of _‘You don’t know what you’re in for.’_ Thing is, she does. She has always known. And she loves him regardless.

She kisses him. His mouth is soft against hers, undemanding and tender, and it sets up an ache in Karen’s chest. He rolls over onto his side, facing her, and this is the easy part. His fingers mapping out the breadth of her back, sliding beneath the straps of her shirt, then easing them away; her hands delving beneath the hem of his sweatpants; the taste of his skin; her sharp intake of breath.

“Not letting you go, either,” she whispers, and in answer, his hands tighten on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins cabin life! A little quiet for now, but we’ll see how long it lasts. :) 
> 
> Sending hugs to my readers! I adore all of you.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning, Karen is quiet.

It’s not the silent treatment—Frank knows she isn’t that petty. The quiet is more a thoughtful one, as if she’s contemplating something. It still jangles his nerves, though, because he knows the kinds of plans she comes up with when she has that look in her eye.

He should have known things between them wouldn’t settle into easy bliss right away. Hell, things between him and Maria were not always easy bliss, because people are people—with their own habits and preconceptions and biases. It stands to reason that any two people sharing a life will rub one another the wrong way on occasion.

Finally, after their breakfast, Karen speaks up. “There’s a small town about forty miles away.”

He looks up sharply.

“I mean,” she says. “I’ve been looking at the maps. We’re going to need supplies eventually—and I was thinking we should probably do that before it begins to snow. After that… there won’t be any snowplows. Less traffic on the road. We might be stuck here for a while, and I’d rather not end up eating my own shoes.”

It’s not a bad idea. They do have supplies, but Frank hasn’t weathered a winter in the mountains—never mind doing so off the grid, without power or running water. They should stock up one last time. If there are people living in the town, they can trade for supplies. If the place is abandoned, they can simply take them.

“All right,” he says. “We should have enough gas to get us there and back, but we should find more if we can. You want to leave soon? Tomorrow—day after?”

She seems to relax. He wonders if she expected him to protest. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he agrees. Maybe the time out of the cabin will do them both some good. 

* * *

They leave just before dawn.

Karen leads the way to their truck. She parked it in a thicket of undergrowth along the highway. Unless someone is looking for it, the truck is hidden beneath the low-hanging branches and brambles that Karen arranged around it. Frank gets into the driver’s seat. Karen has the map open, fingers running along the thin lines. There is a sense of familiarity about the trip, and Frank almost feels almost a sense of relief getting behind the wheel. It’s a reminder that they’re not trapped here, despite the sense of isolation. 

Frank feels a twinge in his thigh as he hits the gas, but he ignores it. Bullet wounds can take months to heal fully, but he’s not going to let it slow him down.

Karen reaches into the glove compartment. “CD or radio?”

“CD,” he answers. “Kentucky doesn’t have any nuclear power plants, and we’re only going forty miles. We should be fine.”

“Classical or one of Micro’s custom CDs?”

“Classical. I don’t have the patience for 80s synth pop this early in the morning.”

The drive is a surprisingly pleasant one. There are no other cars on the road; the mountains are beautiful. This is Frank’s first real glimpse of them—when he came here, he was half out of his mind with blood loss and narcotics. The landscape is stark with autumn browns and grays, but in the spring, the forest will be a lush green. Frank drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window.

A forty mile drive would normally be less than an hour, but Frank keeps their pace slow. The narrow curves could easily hide a fallen branch or abandoned vehicle—or even another ambush. Frank’s attention is all on the road while Karen keeps an eye on their route. She wears a black wool coat that makes her blonde hair look even paler. He knows that beneath it, she’s wearing hikers pants and a long-sleeved athletic shirt, but with the coat on, he can almost imagine her in blouse and pencil skirt again. He wonders if she misses them. 

Their path takes them out of the mountains and into a small valley. The road levels out, and Frank catches glimpses of a few houses here and there. A goat grazes alongside the road.

“Looks like this town isn’t deserted,” says Karen. 

He nods. “Good. We can ask if they have any news.” That’s one thing that bothers him, living so far away from the city. He has no way of knowing what is going on, no way of preparing for any unknown threats. They are hidden in the cabin, but they are also ignorant of anything that might be coming.

As they approach the town, Frank sees the walls first.

Because there are walls. They’re constructed out of chain-link fences and slabs of plywood. It would look like a laughable attempt at a barrier, if not for the man and woman standing beside a gate. Both have hunting rifles.

“Well,” says Karen. “So much for southern hospitality?”

The woman gestures for Frank to come to a halt and he does. The man approaches, his rifle held loosely in his hand. He doesn’t look alarmed or even nervous, which is reassuring. Calm men are less likely to fire a weapon without cause. Frank rolls down his window.

“Morning,” says the man.

“Good morning,” replies Frank. “I’m guessing you’re the welcoming committee?”

The man laughs. “Something like that.” He nods at Karen. “Ma’am.”

Karen nods back.

“We were hoping to do a bit of trading in town,” says Frank. “I guess that’s not an option?”

“Oh, that’s fine,” says the man. He nods at the walls. “These are to keep raiders out. But regular folk are still welcome. You can come in, but you need to see the doc first.”

“Doc,” Frank repeats.

“It’s procedure,” says the man. “You get checked out by the doc first. It’s how we’ve managed to keep the worst of the outbreaks out of here. You don’t like it, find supplies some place else.”

Frank’s eyes go to their surroundings: barricaded walls, guns, guards. There is no easy way into this town. Because of course there isn’t—this is small town, rural America. Everyone who lived here before the fall probably owned a gun of some kind. They’ll be prepared to defend themselves.

“It sounds fair,” Karen says. “Have there been many outbreaks?”

The man snorts. “You could say that.”

“That bad?” asks Frank.

The man grimaces. “Charlotte’s a hot zone now,” he says. “No one in or out. Few other cities have closed their borders. Not enough doctors or meds to treat everyone, which is why all newcomers get a check-up.” He sighs. “It ain’t invasive, if that’s what you’re on about.”

Karen and Frank exchange a look. “Might be good,” she says. “You don’t know the next time we’ll actually see a doctor.” Unbidden, her gaze goes to his thigh. He sees the look.

“All right,” Frank says. “If that’s procedure, that’s fine.”

The man nods. He takes a step back, then gestures at the woman, who unlocks the gate and begins hauling it open. Frank hesitates before hitting the gas. He doesn’t like the uncertainty of having the escape route blocked behind them. For all they know, this doctor could be harvesting organs or blood.

“They didn’t ask us to give up our weapons,” says Karen, as if she can hear what she’s thinking.

“He probably knew that we’d refuse.”

Frank carefully navigates the truck through the gate and into the tow. It looks like a normal, small town—he glimpses a diner, a cluster of tourist-baity shops, and an abandoned gas station. At one of the intersections, a man stands at a corner, waving them over. 

Frank gets out and nods at the man. This one is younger, perhaps eighteen. “You here for the doc?” he asks. Frank nods. “Red building, right behind you."

The kid looks rangy but harmless, but Frank knows better. He waits until Karen is out of the truck before locking it. There is a beep and an audible click as the truck locks itself down. Frank gives young man a flat stare.

“No one touches the truck,” he says quietly.

The young man pales visibly. He bobs his head in a nod. “Right, sir.”

Frank puts his hand on Karen’s back, and the two of them walk toward the red building. Someone has painted a piece of plywood with red words: ALLISON EMERY, MD. The handwriting isn’t very good. As for the building itself, it has seen better days. 

“This is the part,” says Karen, “where if this were a horror film, we’d be separated, sedated, and then probably eaten."

“You’re queen of the pep talks, Page,” replies Frank. He pulls open the front door and peers inside. 

The interior looks like a normal waiting room: there are a few plastic chairs, magazines on a table, and what appears to be a drained fish tank. Frank steps inside first, walking over to the front desk. There’s a young girl sitting behind it—only ten or eleven years old. She has bright red hair and several sheafs of paper before her. She is folding those pages into daisies.

“Hi, there,” says Frank gently. Without meaning to, his voice has done a complete one-eighty from the tone he used with that young man. “How’re you doing?”

The girl looks up. She smiles. “Hi. You here for mom?”

“We’re here for the doctor,” he says. “Is that your mom?”

She nods, then slides off the chair. “Come on.” She steps around the desk, then points down a hallway. “There are gowns back there, behind the curtains. I’ll let mom know you’re here.” She walks to a door labeled _Employees Only_ and pulls it open with a bit of struggle. She vanishes down another hallway, door swinging shut behind her.

“And I thought I was young when I worked my first job,” says Karen. Frank snorts.

True to the girl’s word, behind the curtained partition are several mint-green hospital gowns. Karen picks one up, raises her eyebrows at him. Frank says, “So far we’ve seen two armed adults, one teenager, and a girl. If we are attacked, I’m pretty sure I could take them all.” 

She smiles. “I don’t know. The girl looked like she could be a biter.” She hesitates. “You sure you’re okay with this?"

Getting undressed in any medical setting makes Frank uncomfortably vulnerable. The thinness of the garment, the smell of plastic and antiseptic—all of plunges him into a past he would rather not revisit. But the truth of the matter is, Karen was right. They’re probably not going to have access to any medical professionals for months if not years. They should take advantage of this while they still can. 

Karen is beside him, trying to tie her gown shut, but her hair keeps getting tangled in the strings. He steps closer, says, “Here,” and holds her hair out of the way. She manages the knot in a single try, then turns to face him. The light green is a good color on her, even if the gown is little more than a sheet and strings.

“You okay?” she says, when she sees his face.

She can read him too damned well. “Fine,” he replies. “Just—memories.”

A click of heels on linoleum draws Frank’s attention. A woman in her forties appears, wearing a white lab coat. She has red hair and freckles—obviously that young girl’s mother. She has a stark beauty; she looks sharp as a hawk and about as approachable. “Dr. Emery,” she says, as an introduction. “And you are?”

“Pete Castiglione,” he answers. “This is Karen Page. We were told—”

“Right, right.” The doctor nods. “Which one of you is first?”

Karen and Frank exchange a look, and he remembers her words of only a few moments ago: separated, sedated, and eaten. 

The doctor sees the look. “You can come in together,” she says. “Married couples do that all the time. But it’s a small exam room, it’s easier for one person to stay out here. Unfortunately the end of civilization doesn’t lend itself toward roomy accommodations.” 

Something in her voice puts him at ease. Frank considers himself pretty good at reading people, and this doctor has so very little interest in either of them, that he can’t believe she has any ill intentions. 

“I’ll go first,” says Frank. If this does turn out to be some kind of organ-harvesting scheme or something equally dire, he can at least fight his way out.

And sure, maybe that’s a bit paranoid. But he’s seen stranger things in the last few months.

Dr. Emery nods, and waves him into the exam room. Frank gives Karen one last nod before walking inside. The door closes behind him.

The woman gestures him onto the exam table; paper crinkles beneath him as he sits. “So,” says Dr. Emery. “You healthy?”

The stark question makes him frown. “Isn’t that your job to know?” He says the words without thinking, but she only laughs.

“Patients usually know what’s going on with their own bodies. I’m just here to make sure you don’t bring in plague.”

“You get a lot of that?”

“Not yet.” She snaps on a pair of disposable gloves. “You come into town to live?” she asks. “With winter coming on, it’s not a bad plan.”

“No. We’ve got a safe place. Just here for supplies.”

“I hope you’ve got something to trade.”

Frank almost smiles. Before they left, he packed five boxes of ammo and a few bottles of wine. Gunner’s stockpile means they have enough bullets for a small war. They can spare a few. 

She looks him over, and he feels like one of those show dogs on tv—she peers into his mouth and eyes, then runs her fingers down his spine.

“How’re things?” he asks. “It’s been a month since we really talked to anyone. Any news?”

Emery’s thin mouth purses. “We don’t know much. We’ve got radios and a few runners who manage to get up to Lexington, but it’s not like we’re tapped into CNN.”

“Then what do you know?” he asks.

She pulls a stethoscope from around her neck. “Oh, the usual. Collapse of society and all that.” She says the words with the kind of flatness that comes of repeated trauma. He has seen that face before, in war zones. People become numb to loss after they’ve seen enough of it. “No one knows why half of humanity just up and died. Some people say it’s the rapture. Let me tell you, there has been a revival in church attendance. And hell, maybe they should be praying.”

“That bad?” he asks.

She presses the stethoscope between his shoulder blades. “You want the truth?”

“Preferably.”

“You won’t like it. Nobody does.”

“That’s my problem.”

At his answer, she almost smiles. “Lack of medicines are going to kill more people than anything else. Before everything went to shit, about thirty million Americans needed insulin. We’re running out—and more than that, we can’t even deliver the medication to where it needs to go half the time. Only way to do it is to drop the supplies from planes and hope people get it. But there’s just not enough medication, so diabetic patients are going to be in trouble. Same goes for asthma patients. And anyone who was on dialysis—well.”

“Shit,” he says.

“You see the problem.” She steps around him, fingers probing at his jawline, down his neck. Her gloved hands are almost as cold as the stethoscope. “We’re looking at a population drop over the next two years that will probably rival the Black Plague. And that’s not even taking into account the people we’ve already lost.” She nods at him. “Have you been feeling ill? Any unusual symptoms?”

“Only a gunshot wound,” he says, and pulls his gown up a little. Her gaze zeroes in on the newly formed scar. She reaches down, probes gently at the tender skin.

“Round is still in there?” she asks, lifting his leg to look at the back of his thigh. “I don’t see an exit wound. Small caliber, from the look of it.”

And that’s when he realizes why she seems so familiar. He recognizes the breezy way she’s moving about the place, the deft surety of her fingers. He’s seen it before—in Curtis.

“You’re not a civilian,” he says.

At that, she laughs. “And guessing from those scars, you’re not one, either. Well, sorry to disappoint but, I’m not exactly what you’re thinking. Dishonorable discharge. After that, I worked three years as an off the books doctor before everything went to hell.” She stands. “Wound looks fine. You should try to keep the scar moisturized as best you can while it’s still forming, and don’t forget to stretch that leg.”

He watches her, a bit incredulous. “You were a mob doctor."

She shrugs. “Nobody around here cares. Why would they? It’s not like there’s anyone to arrest me. Besides, I’m the only thing standing between this town and an outbreak of whooping cough or something equally dire. Speaking of, you up to date on all vaccinations?”

“Yeah.”

“You get the flu shot for this year?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re getting it now.”

When Frank emerges from the examination room, he finds Karen sitting on one of the plastic chairs. She rises at once. “Everything okay?”

“I got a flu shot,” he says. “And an earful. Take your notebook into the room with you. Ask her about what’s going on. There’s an entire story just waiting to spill out of that woman.”

She blinks, then nods. “Okay.”

* * *

Frank was right.

This doctor is a _goldmine._

Karen spends five minutes being looked over and then an hour talking to Dr. Emery about the state of healthcare. Her hand is beginning to cramp from all of the note taking. After the first half-hour, she begins to feel a little ill. She knew things were bad, but the way the doctor lays it all out… it turns Karen’s stomach. Tales of medicine shortages, of nursing homes left abandoned, of those with chronic illnesses raiding pharmacies out of desperation. Karen forces back her own reactions, trying to remain detached. A journalist getting the story.

It makes her glad that she and Frank will be retreating back into the mountains. As remote as their cabin is, it feels safer than any of the small towns or cities.

When she’s finished, the doctor says, “So, no illnesses recently?”

“No.”

“Headaches? Stomach issues?”

“No.”

“Are you sexually active?”

Karen’s lips automatically form the word ‘no’ because it’s been that way for so long. “Yes,” she says.

“Any chance that you’re pregnant?”

Karen hesitates. They’ve been careful. She tracks her periods and Frank has never come inside of her—but still. She knows pulling out is a haphazard method at best. “I… don’t think so.”

Dr. Emery crosses her arms. “You need birth control?”

Karen goes still. “You have pills?”

“No pills,” says the older woman, picking up what looks like a small, oddly shaped pen. “Implants. We got a shipment just before everything went to hell. Popular commodity now. If you’ve got something to trade for it, we could give you one. We’ll need to do a quick pregnancy test first, but after that...” She makes a clicking sound with her tongue, as if to imitate a cocking gun. 

The idea is an appealing one. Getting pregnant in a world with failing healthcare, when she’s living off the grid in a cabin, with a man she is pretty sure doesn’t want any more kids... it’s not exactly how she pictured motherhood. “Okay.”

“We ran out of numbing agents,” Dr. Emery warns. “We’ll be doing this sans painkillers.”

“How bad is it?”

The doctor shrugs. “A bit like being stabbed, but it’s quick.”

Karen squares her shoulders. “I can handle a little pain."

When the procedure is done, the doctor bandages Karen’s arm, tells her to take it easy for a few days, and keep the area clean. Karen knows she must be pale; when she walks out of the exam room, Frank’s expression draws tight. He moves across the room in two long strides. “You okay?”

Dr. Emery follows her out, then looks at Frank expectantly.

“I promised her a box of ammo,” Karen says. “For payment.”

Frank raises one brow, but he doesn’t question. He reaches into his backpack and comes up with the box. Dr. Emery takes it, says, “Good seeing you both,” then walks down the hall and out of sight.

“Are you okay?” he says again, once they’re alone. 

Karen smiles wanly. “I will be. Just—hurts. The doctor couldn’t afford to numb me before the procedure. My arm’ll be sore for a week.”

His frown deepens. “What procedure?”

She doesn’t know how to say it, so she just blurts it out. “Birth control implant,” she says. She watches surprise flash across his face. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “I didn’t even think…”

“Me either,” she admits. “Not until the doctor brought it up.”

He blinks a few times. Surprise shifts into a contemplative hesitation. “So…”

She nods. “It’ll take a little while to kick in. But after my next period… yeah.”

Frank looks as though he’s having all sorts of ideas—and it makes her laugh.

“Worth coming here just for that?” she says, a bit teasingly.

He hesitates. “I—no, ‘course not. I wasn’t—”

He is adorable when he’s flustered. And she is pretty sure she’s the only person alive who’s ever seen him stammer.

“Hey, hey.” She silences him with a hand on his chest. “I know. And I get it. We have a lot to worry about, and it’s one less thing.” She reaches up, unlacing the knot at the top of her hospital gown. “Mind grabbing my shirt?”

He does.

She dresses carefully, wincing as her sleeve brushes the bandage inside her arm. When she’s decent again, she picks up her bag with her good arm. “The implant’ll last around five years.”

“Gives us plenty of time to figure something out after that,” he says. As if it’s a foregone conclusion they’ll still be together in five years time.

She hopes so.

They leave the clinic with clean bills of health and the teenager outside tells them where to find the nearest store. Apparently, people have set up a sort of farmers market there—only with things not usually found at farmers markets: batteries, tools, live animals, skins, traps, half-filled bottles of medicine, and other assorted goods. There’s a woman spinning wool into yarn, and another person knitting that yarn into scarves. They look soft and warm, and Karen lingers for a few moments, fingers brushing the material. It’s a beautiful sky blue.

Another vendor is serving cups of coffee brewed with fresh goat’s milk, and there’s a few young people bartering eggs.

Frank gets them both cups of coffee before going off to bargain for gasoline. Karen meanders down another aisle.

She finds crates of books near the end of the row. She comes to a halt, glances up at the person behind the table. It’s young woman—probably only sixteen years old. But she has the wary eyes of a stray animal. “Are these for sale?” asks Karen.

The girl nods.

Karen sifts through the titles. They were taken from a library—they still have the stickers and plastic lining the covers. She finds a three pulp mysteries, a collection of classic short stories, two romances, and a Polish fantasy book with a shirtless guy on the cover. She trades a combat knife for the books—thanks to Gunner’s armory, they have more than enough blades.

She meets Frank at another table; he is handing over ammo in exchange for bags of flour. “You see anything else we need?” he asks, once he’s finished.

She spots a chess board on the table. It’s not precisely a necessity, no more than the books are—but she has a feeling they’re going to need something to keep them occupied. “You know how to play?”

“It’s been a while,” he says. “But yeah.” He adds to the man behind the counter, “We’ll take that, too."

When they leave the building, Karen pulls her coat more tightly around herself. The autumn air has a harsh bite to it, and she wonders how long it will be until frost appears. She can almost taste winter on the air.

They pack up their things in the back of the truck cabin—they didn’t buy enough to warrant pulling up the tarp and using the bed. Karen offers to drive, but Frank shakes his head. “I’ve got this."

The man and woman at the gate wave them through. The man gives them a nod as they drive by—and Karen feels a twist of uncertainty. With winter coming, surely not all of these people will survive. Disease and hunger will claim a few. She shivers and turns away. “You cold?” asks Frank. He turns the heater up, and she lets him.

As they drive back to the cabin, Karen opens her notebook. She can sense Frank casting glances at her every so often.

“I’m working on theories,” she says, when she catches him looking. “I’m trying to figure out… well, this is going to sound morbid.”

He tilts his head, then looks back toward the road. “Tell me.”

“I’m wondering if there’s some kind of connection,” she says. “Something… about all of the survivors. Because from everything I can tell, this attack—it wasn’t a biological agent. If it was a poison, we’d both be dead.”

He grunts an agreement.

“And it’s not viral or bacterial,” she continues, “because once the attack was over, it stopped. That was it. No more people vanishing into ash after the fact.”

Another grunt.

“And it was… so precise,” she says. “Half. Exactly half of every population we’ve come across. This was calculated. And yeah, at first I thought maybe it was because whoever attacked thought humanity would wipe itself out afterward… but people will survive. That camp back in Pennsylvania? They’re going to make it. Maybe this town, too. So whoever did this wasn’t looking for outright annihilation. So what was it? And what do all the survivors have in common? Is it something our DNA? A shared genetic trait? It’s not blood type, I know that much.”

“How’d you figure that?”

“We’re different types,” she says. “I’ve seen your medical charts. So it’s not that.”

Frank considers. “You keep saying ‘humanity.’ Like this threat came from outside of it.”

“I mean,” she says, “we live in New York. We know that alien life is real.” She corrects herself. “Lived. Lived in New York.”

He stays quiet for a few moments. “I wasn’t there when it happened. The Incident or whatever shit people are calling it now.” He stares at the road for a few moments. “Wasn’t even on tour. Me and Maria took the kids to her mom’s for the week. It was some uncle’s birthday—can’t remember which one. Just remember turning on the tv and seeing something about aliens. Thought one of the kids had put on a stupid action movie instead of the news.”

“I was there,” she says. He looks at her sharply. “I wasn’t near where it happened, though. I had a temp job near Kings Park.”

”So you think aliens did this?” he asks.

“You don’t?”

Something crosses his face. “I think people are plenty good at killing themselves.”

“Why would anyone do this?”

“Prelude to an invasion, maybe,” he says. “Weaken the population, then hit them when they’re starving.” He shrugs. “It’s what I’d do.”

“But it hit the entire world,” she replies. “What kind of weapon leaves your country as weakened as the rest?”

“Maybe the tech got free.” His hand tightens on the steering wheel. “Countries still have stores of bioweapons. Samples of shit like smallpox. All it would take was one person slipping up—or a radical trying to fuck things up.” She shivers and he says, “It’s just a theory.”

“One that makes way too much sense.” She shifts in her seat. “So the question is whether this was a deliberate attack or if someone made a mistake.”

“Don’t really see how it makes a difference,” he says. “I mean, not to dismiss all your theories and ideas—but it happened. Finding out how it happened won’t change anything.”

She looks at him. “True. But the hows still matter.”

“To the history books, I bet.”

“To us, too.” She closes her notebook with a light thump. “It matters because… what if it happens again?”

Frank's fingers tighten on the wheel. He doesn’t answer, because she knows there really isn’t much to say.

* * *

Frank parks the truck in the thicket alongside the road. He begins unloading their supplies while Karen goes around back, picks up a few of the branches. She begins layering them atop the truck bed when—

The tarp twitches.

Karen freezes.

It was the wind. The wind moved the tarp. It’s the only explanation.

The tarp shifts a second time, and there’s no mistaking it—something is beneath it.

Karen’s heart leaps into her throat.

They have a stowaway. Shit—shit. She bites back a curse. She has a knife on her, but no gun. She considers calling out for Frank, but that will alert whoever is under there. She’ll do this slowly, quietly. She unsheathes the knife, then with her other hand, takes hold of the tarp’s edge.

She waits a heartbeat, then lifts it, knife gripped tight.

And she sees exactly who crawled into the back of their truck.

For a few moments, she simply stands there, gaping.

“Uh,” says Karen. “Frank.”

The tone of her voice seems to put him on alert. “What is it?”

“You should see this.”

Frank reaches into the truck’s cabin and reemerges with the shotgun. Face set in hard lines, mouth rigid, he stalks around to the back of the truck. He looks like a man going into battle.

Then he sees the what is sitting under the tarp.

It’s a cat.

“Did you… kidnap a cat?” He says the words without judgement—but as a man trying to gauge whether or not he’s about to be dragged into a misadventure he didn’t sign up for.

“No.” She takes a step closer. “It must have crawled inside because it’s warm here. Cats did that back in Vermont all the time during winter—sometimes in the backs of trucks or even into car engines. The latter didn’t end so well.” She reaches out a hand, but Frank seizes her shoulder.

“Rabies,” he reminds her, voice tight. “Not like we can go to a hospital if it bites you.”

Which is a fair point. Her hand drops away.

“It doesn’t look sick,” she says. It’s true—mostly, the cat looks fluffy and round-cheeked. “If it belonged to someone before the attack, it won’t be able to survive out here. Maybe in the town, not in the wilds.”

Frank squints at the cat.

The cat glares back.

“Not to break up this staring contest, but maybe we could put in a crate?” Karen says. “You know, just watch it for a few days? See if it’s diseased? We could house it in the shed.”

Frank goes back to the truck’s cabin and when he returns, he is wearing gloves. “Stand back,” he says, with all of the grimness of a man about to pick up a bomb. No, that’s not true. Frank looked _less_ concerned when standing near a bomb. He reaches down, awkwardly tries to grab the cat around the middle. The cat meows a quiet protest, but it doesn’t try to escape; it hangs limply in Frank’s grip.

He holds it arm’s length while Karen empties one of the wooden crates. Then, carefully, ever so slowly, Frank tries to lower it inside.

 _Tries_ being the important word.

All four of the cat’s legs spring out, claws snagging on wood, as it tries to prevent itself from going into the crate. Frank straightens and the cat’s legs go back to normal. He tries a second time. Again, the cat’s claws pop out and it braces itself against the wooden frame.

“For fucks sake,” Frank says, and tries to angle the cat so that it will drop inside.

Karen can’t help herself. She begins to laugh.

Frank and the cat both look at her, and they have the same indignant expression.

That sets her off even more, and she ends up on her knees, laughing so hard that she is wheezing.

“Frank Castle,” she finally manages to say. “The Punisher. Terror of Hell’s Kitchen. Defeated by a fucking cat.”

They do manage, in the end. Karen grabs a towel and they roll the cat up in before shoving it in the wooden crate and putting a slab of wood over the top. The cat glares at them both, then begins to meow in protest. It continues to do so all the way back to the cabin.

They put the cat in the shed with a box full of dirt and wood chips—the closest thing to a litter box—and some tuna and water. The cat seems content with the meal, and Karen shuts the shed door with some regret. She leaves a few blankets in there; she doesn’t want the cat to get cold.

“We’ll wait a few days,” says Frank. “If it looks sick…” Karen knows that Frank will put it down as humanely as he can.

“And if it doesn’t?” Karen asks. “Do we take it back? See if someone lost a cat?”

Frank shrugs. “We could always eat it.”

She knows he’s joking, but she still cuffs him on the arm.

“I guess we’ll see what happens,” she says.

From inside the shed, the cat begins to yowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because as much crap as I put these two through, I couldn’t resist giving them a pet. *shrugs*
> 
> Hugs to everyone! <3


	12. Chapter 12

Karen hasn’t had a pet in well over a decade.

Before her mother passed, they did have a dog. After—there was too much to do. Karen was too busy trying to keep the diner afloat, and then she moved to New York where rents were ridiculous and almost no place allowed pets, so she never considered the idea. And now that civilization has collapsed, all she can truly think about is keeping herself and Frank safe.

She never expected a cat to just follow them home.

The next morning, Karen goes out to check on the cat. She leaves Frank in bed, slipping out into the morning autumn mists. She won’t touch the cat; she just wants to make sure it’s all right. She tries to open the door just a sliver, but there is a flash of white and gray fur, and the cat darts outside. It stands in the shadow of an oak, tail crooked to one side, sniffing the air.

Well, so much for keeping it in captivity.

“Hey,” says Karen.

The cat glances back at her.

Karen squats down and extends her hand to the cat. Its tails swishes back and forth, and it appears to be considering her. It turns, pads across the fallen leaves, and sniffs her outstretched fingers. Karen holds as still as she can, barely daring to breathe. Then the cat rubs its cheek against her knuckles.

Which is all kinds of adorable.

Karen scratches it under the chin and it purrs. It has the purr of a broken car engine—all rough starts and stops, but it still tugs at Karen’s heart.

“Hi, there,” Karen says softly. The cat purrs even louder.

When Frank emerges from the cabin, it is to find Karen hanging clean laundry from the line and the cat sits a few feet away, washing his face.

Frank looks as though he wants to protest, but he only sighs.

“I think it’s fine,” says Karen. “He’s used to people. He was someone’s pet before all of this happened.”

“He?”

“I checked. He was fixed. So he’s seen a vet at least once before—and look at him. Does he look threatening?”

Frank gives the cat a wary glance.

The cat ignores him, scrubbing a paw over his right ear.

They go about their normal chores: washing, cleaning, preparing food and trying to organize supplies for the winter. Karen puts their new books on a shelf and Frank stores the flour in a few plastic bins, where hopefully no rodents can get at it. The cat, meanwhile, trails after them. He keeps a bit of a distance, only approaching when Karen and Frank eat lunch. Karen slips the cat a few scraps of rehydrated meat and he eats happily, that rusty-engine purr rumbling the whole time.

She puts him in the shed for the night, and the cat meows plaintively as she shuts the door.

She feels like a terrible human being walking away from the shed. Going into her cabin. Putting on her pajamas. Kissing Frank goodnight and rolling onto her side. She lays there—awake, staring into the darkness, and wonders if the cat is cold. If he’s lonely or scared. She watches the window, tries to force herself to sleep.

About twenty minutes of silence later, Frank heaves a sigh. He gets out of bed. “What?” says Karen.

He doesn’t answer. He merely pulls on his boots, a pair of gloves, and walks shirtless into the night.

Well. Karen knew what she signed up for when she fell in love with him. If she wanted normal, she should have gone for Foggy.

About forty seconds of wondering what the hell, Frank returns to the cabin with the cat.

“He’s not sleeping in the bed,” he says gruffly. “We’re shutting the door to the bedroom so he can’t sneak in while we’re asleep.”

“Okay,” she says, still a little dazed. “Why…?”

“Because I know you,” he says. “And you weren’t going to sleep so long as you thought that animal might be hurting. And I can’t sleep until you do.”

She almost says the words in that moment—those words she uttered in the truck but hasn’t had the courage to say again.

“Come here,” she says, instead. He does, and she pulls him close. His arm settles around her, and falls asleep to the gentle sound of his breathing.

* * *

The next day, the cat goes hunting.

Karen is reading beside the fire and Frank is checking on the windowsill garden when there is a thud from the pantry. Both Karen and Frank look at one another, then the cat strolls out of the small cupboard, tail held high, and gently sets a decapitated mouse’s head at Frank’s feet. He gazes up expectantly, as if awaiting praise.

“Looks like he takes after you,” says Karen, unable to help herself.

“I can’t decide if this is a threat or not,” Frank replies.

“He’s a cat, not a mobster,” she replies. “This is probably his way of showing off what a good hunter he is. Tell him he’s a good cat.”

“Good cat,” says Frank, but not like he’s sure about it.

The cat tilts his head. Then his paw flashes, and the cat beings batting the head like a toy.

“Jesus Christ.” Frank reaches down and scoops up the cat, holding him at arms length. “No—just. Fuck no. This is too fucking morbid.” He carries the cat outside and puts him out there. Karen quietly disposes of what’s left of the mouse.

On the third day, Karen is curled up beside the fire and Frank is reading in the rocking chair. The cat slinks into the room, looks at them both, then leaps into Frank’s lap. Frank freezes.

The cat circles in place one, sniffing at Frank’s forearm, then nuzzles his wrist. As if on reflex, Frank begins scratching the cat’s ears. He purrs so loudly that the sound reverberates through the whole room. Then he curls up on Frank’s lap, claws gently flexing into his thigh. Frank winces, but continues to stroke the cat’s head.

Frank looks over at Karen, sees her watching.

“We’re keeping him, aren’t we?” he says.

Karen nods.

Frank runs his fingers along the cat’s back. The cat arches into the touch with such enthusiasm he nearly falls off of Frank’s lap.

“Campion,” he says.

“What?”

“Captain Campion,” he says again. “We’re not naming him Hazel or Blackberry or Buttercup.”

She breaks into a grin. “You want to name him after an enemy soldier rabbit?”

“Respected enemy soldier rabbit. And it sounds better than any of the other rabbit names. Sorry, but Fiver is shitty name.”

“Agreed.”

“And he’s never sleeping in the bed.”

“Agreed.”

And that’s how the end up getting a cat.

* * *

Karen thought she knew winter.

When cold came to Vermont, it was the season of stolen breaths, dry, crisp and silvery. It meant more tourists, and fogged windows in the diner and dark mornings. Winters in New York were a damper cold—the chill of the snow blunted by crowds and cars and movement. She grew used to showing up at work pink-cheeked, kicking dirty snow from her boots before slipping her pumps out of her purse.

Winter in Kentucky is something else. It isn’t quite as cold, but the snow isolates in a way that it didn’t in Vermont or New York. There are no snow plows, no sound of kids dragging sleds up hills or drivers honking at one another. Here, the snow settles in around them—muffling sight and sound.

The first morning it snows, Karen stands before the window, fingertips lightly resting on the glass. The oak trees are laced with frost and the sky is a gauzy dove-gray.

The thing about winter is there really isn’t much to do. They wake up, prepare food, keep the fire going, check to make sure the well pipes haven’t burst, use the outhouse, and try to fill the remaining hours as best they can. The chess board sees a lot of use; they read; they play with Campion; they talk. Karen hears about Frank’s childhood—something he’s never talked about. And she tells him about hers. They learn more about one another in those winter months than all their previous time combined.

Campion takes to the cabin like he belongs there—charming Karen with cuddles and Frank by disemboweling every rodent that tries to invade their food stores. And if Karen’s being honest, having a pet around is something that they both need. He’s warm and soft and affectionate. She’s less appreciative when the cat wakes absurdly early and demands to be let outside by scratching at the front door. Either Frank or Karen has to get out of bed, grumbling at the cold wooden floor against their bare feet, and let the cat out. Then, as soon as he’s done his business, the cat yowls to be let back inside.

“Still not opposed to eating him,” Frank murmurs, one morning when the meowing starts up.

“We’d be overrun with mice,” Karen replies.

She works in her notebook every few days—scribbling down bullet lists of ideas and questions. It’s half theory and half wild speculation; she bounces ideas off of Frank. He is still convinced that it was a country that did this, while she isn’t so sure. Humanity has accomplished many great feats but turning half its population to ash seems a little out of their reach.

One evening, they’re on a game of chess when Karen says, “So what would we be doing right now if the world hadn’t ended?”

He glances at her from across the board. “What’d you mean?”

“I mean,” she slides a rook across the board, claiming one of his knights, “if the world hadn’t ended. If things had gone differently—where would you be right now?”

He looks skeptical.

“Come on,” she says. “Humor me.”

“Probably in bed with a book,” he says.

She grins.

“What?” he says.

She shakes her head. “It’s just… normal. Domestic.”

“I didn’t spend all of my time hunting criminals,” he says. “I had a job—a life.”

“Please tell me you had a book club.”

“Nope.” He moves a pawn. “And where would you be, if the world hadn’t ended?”

“At my kitchen table with my laptop, working on a new story.” She sighs. “I miss the internet. All the conversation, the connection. Even the stupid memes.”

“So what you’re saying is if the world hadn’t ended, you’d be a workaholic.”

“Work was something to do,” she says. “Kept my mind busy.”

“You need something to do,” Frank says. She recognizes that voice; it’s the one he uses when he’s trying to coax a dead rodent from Campion’s mouth. “You don’t like being idle.”

She looks down at the board. His dark eyes are a little too knowing.

“No,” she says. “I don’t.”

“You ever think about why?”

She has, actually. The truth of the matter is, Karen isn’t sure she trusts herself with stillness or silence. She has been in constant motion since she left her home—from one job to the next, one apartment to another, friends coming and going, work her only constant companion. Foggy and Matt were her first real attempts to put down roots—and look at how that ended.

“I need it,” she says. “The last time I—I let things slip, everything fell apart.”

“That won’t happen again, Karen.” His voice is soft, but she still can’t meet his eyes. “You’re not going to screw anything up by taking a few days to yourself or putting that notebook away. A good friend once told me,” says Frank, “that I lived the way I did because it was a fucked up sort of penance. That I was only punishing myself.”

She toys with one of her fallen pieces. The rook’s edges are sharp against her fingers. “Is this Frank Castle, psychologist talking?”

He huffs. “I would be a shit therapist and we both know it.” He meets her gaze, and she returns it with some difficulty. “Don’t like seeing you hurt, is all. Even if it’s you doing the hurting.”

She doesn’t know what she did to deserve him. She doesn’t deserve him—but she doesn’t care. The world will have to end a second time before anything takes him from her.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll try to take a day off every once in a while. Leave the notebook alone for a few days.” She moves another piece. “Jesus. Some date night this is—all we need is a therapist’s couch.”

“This,” he says, and uses a knight to take her bishop, “is not a date night. Definitely not a date night.”

“And what,” she says, “would constitute a Frank Castle date night? Cooked squirrel? A candlelight dinner… oh, wait, all of our dinners are candlelit now.”

He gives her a tolerant look. “At least it’s not beers and crime scene photos.”

“Touché.” She grins, feeling a bit lighter. “All right. So the world didn’t end. What would date night be?”

He considers the board for a few moments before answering.

“There’s a place off of Rivington,” he says. “Up an alley—can’t really see it from the street. You walk into what looks like a neighborhood, and there are these potted plants and people have strung lights across their fire escapes. You’d think it was just where someone lives, but if you walk all the way through, there’s this small door. Unmarked—but when you walk inside, it’s an Italian place. It’s the only place I’ve found decent arancini.”

“Frank Castle,” she says, smiling. “Secret food connoisseur?”

“Not even close,” he replies. “Back during my second tour, my unit got a bit of leave. It wasn’t enough time to fly home, so a few of us grabbed a flight to Rome. We spent a weekend—Bill working his way through every club he could find and me playing wingman. Ate a lot of food. Saw St. Peter’s. It was a good few days.” He exhales heavily. She reaches across the table, covering his hand.

She hates that it was a friend who betrayed him. It somehow makes everything seem all the worse—because it could have been so easily prevented, if Bill Russo had possessed any kind of conscience.

“So Italian food?” she says. “That would be date night?”

“They had gelato.”

“Sold.”

* * *

January drags into February.

Some of the snow retreats from the places the sun touches—lingering in the spaces beneath the cabin’s awning, under trees and the shed. Their food stores are beginning to thin out a little, and Frank goes hunting and comes back with a few birds. It takes a while to figure out how to pluck them and Campion decides the fallen feathers make delightful toys. But after the birds are roasted, they taste amazing—probably because they didn’t come out of a packet or MRE. Campion begs for scraps, and she gives him bits of fat and gristle.

Karen’s windowsill gardens yield some vegetables: they have radishes and spinach, and even potatoes in plastic bags. It’s not the prettiest garden in the world, but the fresh food makes all the difference. And it’s something to do, tending to them.

One morning, Karen wakes to the sensation of warmth. Sunlight cascades through the window, across their bed. Spring is well and truly on its way. Frank stirs as soon as she does, eyes half-lidded and fingers still resting on her stomach. “Campion need to be let out?” he says, voice soft with sleep.

“I can’t hear him,” replies Karen. “Maybe he’s still asleep.” She stretches, arms over her head.

“Mm. Maybe he’s letting us have the morning to ourselves.” Frank kisses the base of her neck, trailing upward. She shivers and tilts her head, encouraging. There is a touch of tongue against the round shell of her ear. She moans softly, shifts her body so that she faces him.

“Did you have anything in mind?” she murmurs, smiling. She enjoys the touch of his fingers as they stroke her side, her hip, up over her stomach. A whisper-light stroke over her nipple and she shivers. She kisses him, and God, she loves this. The play of his mouth against hers, the give and take of it. He kisses like there is nothing else in the world he would rather be doing, like this in itself is enough for him. It isn’t enough for her, though. She nips at his upper lip—he likes a bit of teasing, and she knows it.

He reaches down, fingers trailing across her clothed stomach, down to the sensitive place at the crease of her thigh. “Frank.” His name is both a plea and a gasp—and then his thumb slips beneath her panties.

“Goddamn,” he says, and his voice frays a little. “You’re soaked.”

Part of her wishes she was the kind of person that could be talkative during sex—she could say something like _Only for you._ But all that comes out of her mouth is, “Please.”

Frank has never been able to deny her anything. He slips her panties off, and her shirt follows. His own boxers come away in a moment.

Frank gently lifts her leg and tucks it across his own, widening her hips. His cock glides along her slick sex, and she lets out a sigh when he readjusts and eases into her. It’s unhurried, and she feels achingly, wonderfully full.

It’s a gentle rocking, less chasing pleasure and simply letting it unfurl between them. The sex is slow, lazy: her leg around his waist and his hand on her side, steadying her as they move together. She barely has to move to kiss him; his mouth is a whisper against hers. Karen has always scoffed a little at the term ‘making love’ because it sounds fluffy and ridiculous, but that’s exactly what this feels like. Every stroke of him inside her, every movement winds her up just a little more, pushes her a little higher.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, voice ragged. His hand cups her breast, thumb circling her nipple, and she arches into his touch. “So fucking beautiful.” The fact that he is the talkative one during sex never ceases to amaze her. But she’s not complaining—the low timbre of his voice is almost enough to get her off all on its own. His fingers strum across her clit and she moans, every muscle in her body clenching up. A few more strokes and she tumbles over the edge, his name on her lips.

He rolls her onto her back, movements quickening. She threads her fingers through his hair, one arm around his neck, keeping him close. Even though she can’t orgasm again so soon, it still feels good to have him inside her.

He comes with a gasp, one hand fisted in the pillows, every muscle straining. She kisses him through it, feels the quiver run up and down his back as his cock jerks. She would never admit it aloud, but she likes seeing him in this moment: Frank Castle utterly undone. He pants into her neck, all of his tension slipping away. He’s careful not to rest his full weight on her, easing onto the bed beside her.

She will need to get up and pee—bladder infections are a lot more serious when antibiotics are a limited resource. But she can spare a few minutes to enjoy the afterglow. Frank’s fingers drift over her arm, up and down again, and she feels as though she could fall asleep, just drift off right here. “That was…” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” he answers, because nothing else really needs to be said.

She can’t ever recall being quite this happy; she feels light with it, buoyant. Like she could float up out of this bed if Frank’s arms weren’t around her, tethering her in place. She kisses him, and he makes a soft, pleased sound.

Abruptly, he jerks upright, straightening so quickly his elbow clips her side. The shock of it has her gasping in pain, and then he is moving, all but leaping over her to get out of the bed. He seizes a pair of pants and yanks them on.

“Frank,” she says, startled. His finger comes up, presses his mouth. She goes silent.

Then, she hears it, too.

Voices.

People.

People all the way out here—miles from the road, when there is snow on the ground. Someone didn’t simply stumble upon the cabin; they must have sought it out.

She can’t think of any good reasons for a person to do that.

She remembers the anger of that family they met before reaching the cabin—how that older man snarled about thieves on the road. She remembers the nearby town and its walls and its armed guards. And what the man said they were trying to protect against.

_Raiders._

Frank finishes buttoning up his pants, then he goes to the window and yanks the curtain across it. It won’t make that much of a difference; the curtains are nearly transparent. Then he returns to her, takes her hands. His face is all granite, but there is fear in his eyes.

“Stay inside,” he says fiercely. “Keep away from the windows. If you hear someone that isn’t me try to get into the cabin, shoot them through the door.”

“Frank—”

He kisses her—but it’s all wrong. His mouth is stiff and she’s full of adrenaline. For a heartbeat, he lingers there—lips just touching hers. It feels like the world has been upended; just a few moments ago they were warm in bed and now she is sick with fear and Frank is looking at her like he thinks he’ll never see her again.

“I love you,” he says, and those words slide up between her ribs and into her heart like a knife.

She remembers saying them, all those months ago. Back when she thought she might lose him.

Now he thinks the same.

They are _terrible_ at this.

“Frank—” she starts to say.

“Stay safe. Please.” The last word rips out of him, and then he’s rising, picking up the shotgun, and striding from the room.

She hears his footsteps—he hasn’t even bothered to put on boots—and then the quiet sound of the door opening and closing.

“I love you, too,” she whispers to herself, then reaches for her discarded clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I know, I know. I love you guys & I’m sorry.
> 
> Speaking of love, look at this [edit that Westonfollower made for IDDK](http://westonfollower.tumblr.com/post/183390966043/in-deaths-dream-kingdom-by-the-restless-brook)!! It’s so gorgeous. 


	13. Chapter 13

Frank slips out of the cabin, shotgun in his hand and heart hammering against his ribs.

The last time he fended off an attack at this cabin, it didn’t end well. He can still feel the place where the arrow pierced him, hear Gunner’s wheezes, and taste blood on his tongue. And that was when Frank was prepared for a fight—now he’s shirtless, barefoot, and he has so much more to lose.

He won’t lose.

He can’t.

He knows Karen will be yanking on clothes and grabbing her gun. He also knows that the chances of her staying within the confines of the cabin are low, but he still hopes she’ll remain hidden. Not because she can’t defend herself—but because he doesn’t know what they’re facing yet. If it’s just a few attackers, Frank might be able to take them down one at a time. If there are more—dammit, he should have left Gunner’s traps in place. He dismantled them because the odds of him or Karen stumbling into one were too damned high; keeping them in place would have caged them in, and Karen has never done well with entrapment. Now, he only wishes he had time to install his own.

The shotgun is a comforting weight in his hands. There are six rounds in the magazine, and one already chambered. Only seven shots—which means every single one will need to find a target.

Frank moves through the trees in silence, keeping low to the ground. The undergrowth isn’t as thick as it could be; winter has stripped the forest down to its bare bones. The cold is a faint sensation along his bare soles, but it barely registers. The voices are coming from the direction of the road.

A footstep cracks a fallen branch. There’s the sound of someone stumbling.

Frank closes his eyes for a heartbeat. He lets the world settle into place around him; he breathes in the forest, tastes frost on the air. He has one advantage on their attackers: he knows the terrain. He can use that.

There is a ridge that leads down to the cabin. Frank presses his back to the ascending slope of the earth. The nearest voice is male. It feels like every single one of Frank’s worst fears are confirmed.

Winning a fight is half location and half timing. He has the location, but the timing needs to be perfect. He’s outnumbered—he knows it. There are other voices joining the first.

Frank closes his eyes for the briefest moment. 

He remembers Fisk’s words back in that prison—how he never thought a single man could wreak so much violence. And it is true that Frank can paint a room red with the blood of his enemies. But here is the part that Fisk never understood, that most of his enemies could never understand. It is not that Frank is a better fighter than most of the men he has killed.

It comes down to will. 

He does not simply fight. He fights _for_ something. 

That makes all the difference. 

When he was Lieutenant Castle, he fought for his men. He fought for his country. He fought to get home to his family. 

When he was the Punisher, he fought to end the lives of his family’s killers.

And now Frank fights because he has someone to protect. 

He brings her face to mind—the way she looked just before he left the cabin. He holds that memory close as those footsteps get louder. 

Frank draws in a long breath. 

Someone begins sliding down the ridge. A male figure dressed in a dark coat, hood drawn up. There’s a nine millimeter holstered at his belt.

Frank exhales. And then he moves.

He slams his foot into the man’s knee and kicks him to the ground. The man goes down hard, all the breath whooshing out of him. Frank tears the pistol out of its holster and tosses it away. Better to have a limited number of weapons than risk his opponent seizing one. The man chokes out a surprised sound.

Frank pins him with a bare foot to his throat, shotgun aimed at his chest. “Talk, asshole,” he snarls. “How many are—”

The words crumble in his mouth.

Because it’s not a raider staring up at him.

It’s David Lieberman. His beard is even more unkempt than normal, and there are fresh wrinkles around his eyes—but he’s alive.

For a moment, it feels as though Frank has veered sideways into the past. He is standing in a Kentucky forest with David Lieberman. And while Frank has considered all the things he might say if he were ever to see his friend alive again, what comes out is, “The fuck?”

“Good to see you, too,” David wheezes. “Mind getting your foot off my neck?”

Frank does so. Then he reaches down and helps the other man stand. David pulls him into a bone-cracking hug and Frank returns it. “Should’ve known you’d be here,” says David, pulling back. “Takes more than the end of the world to stop Frank Castle, right?”

Frank opens his mouth to reply, but the words die away as a smaller figure walks out of the trees.

“Dad, we found a cat,” says Leo excitedly. Then she sees Frank.

“Leo,” breathes Frank.

She crashes into him with all of the force of a wrecking ball, almost taking him down at the knees. Frank hastily hands the shotgun to David, who nearly fumbles it. Leo is holding on like she’s afraid he might vanish if she lets go. He wraps an arm around her.

“Frank,” she says, and she sounds on the verge of tears. “I thought you were gone.”

“Hey, I’m here,” he murmurs. “Shh, shh.”

And then Zach is there, beside them both. He doesn’t throw his arms around Frank, but it looks like a near thing. His eyes are damp. “Hey,” he says, a little croaky.

“Hey, kid.” Frank reaches out with his other arm and hugs Zach, too.

Zach is okay. Leo is okay. It feels like a gift that Frank long ago gave up on—when David never showed at the bunker, he assumed—

But then again, not all of them are here.

Frank hears the sound of the cabin door opening and glances up. Karen stand framed in the doorway, wearing her heavy wool coat. Her hair is still a mess from sleep and—other activities.

David looks to Karen.

“Well, well,” he says. “Should’ve known.”

Before Frank can come up with a reply to that statement, Campion comes trotting out of the woods. “That’s him,” says Leo, taking a step toward Campion. “That’s the cat we found.”

“Honey, I wouldn’t,” David begins to say, as Leo reaches down to pick him up.

“It’s fine,” says Karen, pulling the coat tighter around herself. “That’s Captain Campion—he’s friendly. Just don’t rub his belly. Frank found that out the hard way.” For all that her words are light, there’s a slight tremor to her voice. And Frank can see the outline of her sidearm in the coat’s overly large pocket. She’s shaking. Frank knows how she feels; his heart hasn’t stopped pounding. When he pulls her close, arm around her waist, he isn’t sure if he’s trying to steady her or if it’s the other way around.

David’s eyebrows flick upward, but that’s his only indication of surprise. “Your cat outranks you?” he says to Frank.

“Yeah, but I have more confirmed kills,” replies Frank. It’s so easy to slide back into bantering with David; it feels as though the last few months never happened.

“For the moment, anyways,” says Karen. She offers David a shaky smile. “You’re David Lieberman, aren’t you? I’m—”

“Karen Page.” David takes her offered hand and gives it a brief shake. “Yeah, I’ve heard of you, too. Frank only has so many friends—it’s easy to keep track of us.”

Frank exhales, but there’s very little exasperation in it. “What are you doing here?”

“Good to know some things never change,” says David. But he sounds as if he means it. “As for what we’re doing here—surviving. That’s what we’re doing.”

Karen glances over at the kids. Leo has picked up Campion, who is purring into her neck. Zach is petting the cat, too.

“Oh, someone’s going to be spoiled,” murmurs Karen. Then to David she says, “Let’s take this inside.” A glance at Frank. “I know he won’t say anything, but standing out here half-naked can’t be fun.”

Frank looks down at himself; he almost forgot he’s only wearing pants. His toes burn a little with the chill.

“We still have some coffee left,” says Karen. “And I assume you haven’t had breakfast?”

David gives her a tired smile. “I think I’m going to like you.”

* * *

Karen is still jittery.

It’s going to take a little while to convince her body that there isn’t any danger—that there was never any danger at all. Frank pulls on a shirt while Karen sets the kettle on the stove. She’ll make pancakes, she’s decided. They’re not pancakes in the traditional sense—there are no eggs or maple syrup, but she figures it’s still a hot breakfast. She begins mixing the batter while the kids huddle beside the stove. They’re enchanted with Campion, who appears both smug and slightly confused by all the adoration.

It’s heartwarming—and she can see why Frank has grown close to this family.

“They can sleep in our room tonight,” says Karen to Frank. Then hesitates. “We should probably change the sheets.”

“On it,” says Frank, and strides into the bedroom.

Which leaves her with David Lieberman.

For all that she’s heard of him, she’s never actually met the man. He is… exactly what she pictured, if she’s honest. A bit reedy, unkempt, like if one of the genius bar employees was also a survivalist.

“So you’re Karen, huh?” says David.

She nods. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She wonders what he knows of her; he obviously recognizes her face. But then again, if he’s the kind of intelligence officer that she suspects he is, then he probably knows a lot about her. More than she’s comfortable with.

David nods at the batter. “Can I help?”

“Just wait for the kettle to boil. We’ve got a little coffee left—I assume you’d rather kids didn’t have any. I think we have some powdered milk and cocoa—it won’t be sweet, but—”

“Still the closest thing to hot chocolate the kids have had in months,” says David. He looks at her with a kind of exhausted relief. “Thank you for this. The way Frank reacted, I know we must have scared the sh—crap out of you.” He reins in the curse with a glance at his kids.

“It’s fine,” she says automatically. “We just… weren’t expecting…”

“Anyone? Yeah. It’s why we came here.” David glances through the window, gazing at the trees. There is still a little snow on some of the branches. “How long have you two been here?”

“All winter.” She picks up a cast iron skillet. “We’ve done the best we could.”

David snorts. “You’ve got food, a warm place to live, a bed and a cat. I’d say you’ve managed pretty well.”

She glances in the direction of the bedroom; through the half-open door, she can see Frank remaking the bed with military precision. “Frank found me when it—when it was happening. We went to your bunker, actually. Hid out there for a few weeks before we left New York.”

“Not a bad plan,” he says. “Safe location. Plenty of food stores. I mean, it was probably a biohazard nightmare after Frank was tortured there, but you know—no place is perfect.”

Karen swallows hard. Frank never told her about that. Those bloodstains she helped clean up that first day—how much of that was his? She forces herself away from those thoughts. “Where did you go?”

David leans against the kitchen table. “Government safe house. I wasn’t—I wasn’t in intelligence, not anymore. But so many people died—they needed people. Someone from the CIA asked me to work for them. Said that maybe we could do some good. Mostly, I went because it meant my kids would have a roof over their heads and fresh food and medical care.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Kind of makes me sound like a terrible person when I put it that way.”

“Not terrible,” she replies. “Human.”

They eat breakfast in a haphazard way—the table only fits two, so the kids eat there while Karen sits cross-legged on the floor and David takes the rocking chair. Frank leans against a wall. After the kids are done, they ask if they can go outside. Frank advises them to remain close, and they promise. Campion goes with them, and soon, Karen can hear the sounds of them trying to use fallen branches to play with the cat.

David covers his eyes with one hand and exhales. He looks exhausted.

“Where did you come from?” asks Frank.

“DC,” says David. “Took us a few days longer than it should have—you’ll see. We didn’t exactly… well, we didn’t have the best car for fast driving.”

“You came out here in winter?” asks Karen, frowning. “That was a risk.”

“Weather predictions said there isn’t supposed to be anymore snowfall for at least a week.”

Karen freezes. Weather predictions. That means satellites are working and there are people interpreting that data—and maybe distributing it, too. “You know what weather’s coming?”

“If you have the right connections, yeah.” David looks at her evenly. “Government’s got a rudimentary weather channel going now—mostly so the camps know when it’s safe to try and send a transport out. I pulled the data before I ran.”

“Why’d you run?” asks Frank.

David shakes his head. “Too long a story to tell you now. And… not with the kids around.” His attention goes toward the windows, and he exhales. “But don’t panic. We’re not going to just move in full time. Place would be a little cramped.”

“You’re welcome,” Karen begins to say, but David waves her off.

“We’re fine. We’ve got a place to sleep, once we set it up,” he says. “As for supplies, don’t panic about those, either. We brought our own.”

Frank looks interested. “What kind?”

* * *

David wasn’t kidding about supplies.

Because he drove a _fucking RV_ with a storage trailer attached to the back.

Frank gazes at the monstrosity with a kind of wonder. It's like a house on wheels. An overpriced house on wheels, with solar panels atop it and a bumper sticker that reads, _“You shall not pass.”_ It looks like a suburban nightmare.

“Not quite an armored van,” says David, with some regret, “but I had to move on from our wilder days.”

“You actually drove this thing here?” asks Frank.

“Slowly, but yes.” David nods at the RV. “There is a driveway about a mile from here. Belongs to a neighbor. I saw it when I was flying that drone around. It won’t go right up to the cabin, but it’s about… half a mile away?. I thought maybe I’d park the RV there, to start. Figured that the cabin wouldn’t be livable without some work.” He laughs. “Guess it was a good thing I didn’t count on cabin living, at least not at first.

“We can stay in the RV,” continues David. “All we need is a water attachment—we can rig up something from the well, right? I’ve got hoses.”

Karen studies the RV. “You have solar panels?”

“Right,” says David. “And gas in the back of the trailer, in case we need a getaway. It’s a little cramped but it’s not bad. We’ve got hot showers, at least.”

Karen makes an involuntary sound.

David grins. “Ah, thought that’d get your attention. I know Frank here can live with pretty much nothing but a knife and instant coffee, but you strike me as an individual with slightly better taste.”

“Keep talking,” says Frank, but without an rancor. “See if you get that water hook up.”

“You can use the shower whenever you want,” says David.

“You want to see the inside?” says Leo. She tugs on Karen’s wrist.

She goes willingly, stepping up and into the trailer.

David manages to hold his tongue for all of five seconds. Then he nudges Frank with his shoulder.

“You and her?” he asks.

And for all of the jokes about Karen being his girlfriend, the needling and smirks, David is utterly serious now—and Frank feels as if he owes his friend an explanation. “Yeah.”

David raises his brows. “You could’ve said something before, you know. I wouldn’t have judged you. Hell, that’d probably make that night when Sarah kissed you go down a lot easier.” A flash of pain crosses his face—and Frank suspects it has little to do with that one-sided kiss.

David hasn’t mentioned Sarah yet and Frank hasn’t asked. It’s probably a discussion better had when the kids are asleep.

“Yeah.” Frank scratches at his beard. “There wasn’t anything between us, not then. I… couldn’t. Not until my past was laid to rest. Couldn’t look further than that.”

“And you’re a depressing bastard who probably pulled away from any chance at intimacy until the world literally ended, right?”

Frank glares at him.

David is grinning—but in that tired, rueful way of his. “Hey, I’m happy for you, man. She seems nice. And she doesn’t get parking tickets.”

“Don’t tell me you dug into her.”

“Of course I did. Moment I knew she was important to you.”

“If I’m a depressing bastard, you’re a nosey one.”

“Guilty,” David replies. “But at least I’m also a paranoid one. I think we might actually be able to make this work, between all of us. I’m not sure how long, but a while.” He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose and abruptly, all of his good cheer drains away. “I just—running wasn’t easy. We had to sneak out—I sabotaged some security systems. I’m probably a traitor again, but I don’t care. I’d have done anything to keep my kids safe, keep them with me. I’m not losing them again.”

That night, they eat dinner together in the cabin. It’s already been decided that David, Leo, and Zach will sleep in the bedroom—just the one night. David will need time to set up the RV and hook up the water. But more than that, David seems reluctant to leave the company and warmth of the cabin. He has probably on the road for a while, trying to keep his family together as best he can. It must be a relief to be with others who can help share the burden.

Zach and Leo go to sleep early while Karen breaks out a rare bottle of wine. She pours it into three tin cups and they sit around the wood stove as best they can—which means David in the chair meant for the kitchen, Frank in the rocking chair, and Karen on a pillow beside the fire. Frank offers her the chair, but she declines.

“So what happened?” asks Frank, once the bedroom door is firmly shut.

David drinks half his cup of wine in a single go.

“We lost Sarah,” he says. He shakes his head, as if bewildered by his own grief. “I’d just—we’d just found each other, right? And everything was supposed to be fine—it was going to be fine, but then…” He covers his mouth with a hand, eyes glassy and hard. “I saw all of the intelligence we could get out of Wakanda. I know what did this.”

Karen leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Wakanda? Did they do this?”

“I thought they didn’t get involved in wars,” says Frank. “They’re isolationists.”

David swallows the last of his drink. “They tried to stop this. The battle was fought there and they did their best against Thanos, as far as I can tell.”

Something in the word makes Frank’s fingers twitch. “Thanos? Is that a weapon?”

“No—a person.” David looks at him, and there’s a hollowness to his face now. A familiarity of grief that Frank never would have wished upon the other man. “Alien. Which I know sounds ridiculous, but Wakanda was attacked from orbit.”

Karen shoots Frank a triumphant glance. He doesn’t comment.

“There wasn’t much, but I got what I could.” David swallows. “Thanos is some alien who came to earth to retrieve ingredients for some kind of weapon. He hit New York first—I’m sure you saw that incident with the flying spacecraft?”

“I thought that was played off as a military exercise gone wrong,” says Karen.

“Well, it wasn’t,” says David. “Edinburgh was next. Then, Wakanda. Biggest battle went down there. Only a few satellite images made it out, but from what we could see, it was… brutal.”

“What do those three places all have in common?” Karen murmurs. Frank can see her thoughts flickering behind her eyes—this new information has set fire to all her old questions. “What do the US, Scotland, and Wakanda have that no other countries do?”

“There were sightings of different avengers at every city. I don’t know how they played into it, but they did.” David shrugs, pours himself another glass. “They didn’t manage to stop it. Whatever did this—the weapon that Thanos was making. He must have activated it. Earth’s greatest heroes failed, and we’re left to pick up the pieces.” There is no mistaking the bitterness in David’s tone.

“What pieces are left?” asks Karen. “You said you were working intelligence?”

David nods. “CIA recruited me right after it happened. I agreed to help, even though I was trying to get out of the game. But… after we lost Sarah, I just couldn’t sit on my ass. I needed to help make sense of things. So I went to DC. But the government—it’s not good.” He winces. “The military’s running things now. And no offense, Frank, but they’re kinda terrible at it. Madani's doing all she can—”

Frank’s lungs feel a little tight. “She made it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Frank says. “Good.”

David swallows the last of his drink. “Guy running the CIA had me trying to break into encrypted files from the Avengers headquarters. They’re trying to figure out what happened, but the Avengers—what’s left of them—aren’t really cooperating. Trying to hack into them was a fucking nightmare. Tony Stark programmed a few… well, I guess you’d call them programs but really they’re primitive AIs. And while he may be missing, his tech was still active. It was like trying to break into Troy, but without the horse. Every computer I used ended up with such bad viruses that I had to just chuck them. And when I couldn’t do it, the head of the CIA started making noises about how my kids might be safer in one of the camps, rather than with me.” David considers his empty cup. “I took everything I could and ran. I remembered this place. Off the grid, well-protected. Guess that’s why you came here, too?”

“What are the camps like?” Karen asks.

David shrugs. “They’re all different. All of the states have a few going, and there’s some federal ones, too. Think… think college dorms but with less drinking and more desperation. People who can help, who have skills or connections, are let in. They work for food and lodging, because no one gives a shit about money anymore. There were rumors of independent settlements springing up, but I never found out either way.”

“That’s true,” says Frank. “We ran into one not too far from Susquehanna.”

“Shit,” says David. “Don’t tell me—you were—”

“Close, yeah,” Frank says. “I fucked up.”

“We both did,” says Karen.

David shakes his head. “It wasn’t the only plant to go down. One in Kansas, two in Texas. Another in Illinois. And the US—we’re the lucky ones. The concentration of power plants to land mass isn’t that bad and we only had those meltdowns. Some parts of the world… well, let’s just say you don’t want to take a trip to Europe for the next fifty-thousand years or so. Only countries that made it through without a single mishap were Poland and, ironically, Ukraine.”

“What are we looking at in terms of recovery?” asks Frank. Because this is what he cares about—not the cause, because he can’t do jack about that. Let Karen and the other writers delve into the _whys_ of the matter. All that matters to him is _what now._

David laughs. It isn’t a pleasant sound.

“A dark age,” he says. “We’re looking at a fucking modern dark age.”

Karen draws her arms a little closer to herself.

David continues, “We haven’t even really hit the worst of it, not yet. We still have some things stockpiled. Medicines, food. It’ll run out eventually, and we don’t have the infrastructure to replace it—not yet. Ten years from now, any gasoline you’ve been hoarding will have gone bad. It’s got a shelf life, you know. Hope you know how to ride a bike. Only way to survive will be to live entirely off the grid, self-sufficient, and hope you don’t get cancer or appendicitis or something like that. Or you can go to one of the camps and hope that the government doesn’t try to take your kids away from you.” He closes his eyes. “Shit—sorry. I don’t mean to be a complete downer but…”

David looks suddenly old, aged by grief and exhaustion. Frank knows that feeling a little too well.

“You should get some rest,” Frank says.

David rises unsteadily to his feet. “It’s good to see you,” he says. “When everything happened, I thought—I wasn’t sure. Didn’t know who survived and who didn’t. Glad you did.”

“Yeah,” says Frank. “You, too.”

David goes into the bedroom, closes the door behind him.

Frank exhales through his nose, then looks at Karen. He isn’t sure what to expect—if she’ll look frightened or grief-stricken. But instead, her face is set with steel.

“What’re you thinking?” he asks quietly, so as not to disturb the Liebermans.

She does not answer right away. Her fingers flex, as if grasping for something she cannot quite reach. “Honestly? I’m angry. I’m so fucking angry.” She rises from her seat on the floor, and the gleam of the firelight catches in her hair. She looks like a painting of some wrathful goddess; her beauty is the kind that would drive men to war in her honor. “All of this,” she says. “All of this was by design. Someone _wanted_ this to happen.”

“Yes,” he says.

“All of this suffering, all of this rampant death. It didn’t have to happen. None of this had to happen, but someone made it happen.” She paces from one end of the room to the other, and he makes no move to stop her. “Foggy,” she says. “Marci. Ellison. Gone because—because why? I don’t even know. Because someone could, because they did, and—” She goes still, and her eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck. I want—” She cuts off, then her eyes flash open and meet his.

He understands.

She wants to kill whoever did this. The desire simmers within her, hot and demanding, threatening to set her aflame if she doesn’t find an outlet for that fury. She wants it so badly that it is a physical ache. Frank knows—because he burned in that fire for years.

She looks at him. “God,” she whispers. “Is this how you felt?”

He rises from the rocking chair, reaches for her. She allows him to pull her close, one hand resting between her shoulder blades. Her hands fist in his shirt, as if she needs to hold onto something.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

A tremble runs through her. “How—how did you stand it?”

“I killed a lot of people,” he says. “Then this blonde lady strolled into my hospital room and reminded me I was doing this for my family—and that if I never found out the truth, then it was all for nothing.” He kisses her temple. “Then I killed more people. Wouldn’t recommend my methods, sweetheart. Do what you always do. Get at the truth of it all.”

“I don’t see how,” she says. “This is just… too big. It’s bigger than all of us.”

“Then break it into pieces,” he says. “Treat it like you would any other story. Find your sources, work from there. David’ll be a good one. He probably saw a lot while he was working for the CIA.”

She leans into him; he can feel the tension radiating from her. “And all of this awful… God, I don’t even know how to describe it. Like I want to rend something apart with my bare hands.”

“I can teach you how to fight. That’ll burn off some of that energy.”

She looks at him sharply, surprise cutting through her anger. “Really?”

“I should’ve done it months ago, but it’s been too cold. We can start soon.”

She pulls back a few inches, her gaze searching his face. He isn’t sure what she looks for.

“Why aren’t you angry?” she asks. “I mean, it’s not like I expect you to fly off the handle, but—”

“I’m not precisely a model of mental health,” he replies, utterly bland.

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

He considers. The truth is, Frank _is_ angry—but it’s not the all-consuming torrent that Karen is caught up in. For her, it’s personal. She lost too many friends for this to be anything but personal. For Frank, it’s more of a back-burner simmer. He’s angry that someone did this and he’s even angrier that none of those assholes with superpowers managed to stop them. If Frank had the kind of abilities they did… but there’s no use in speculation. He didn’t even know this was coming, so he couldn’t fight it. And he has managed better than most in the aftermath.

He says, “Thanos didn’t take anything from me I couldn’t stand to lose.”

She’s still here, after all. 

She looks at him, brows drawn with confusion. And fuck, that’s probably his fault. He has only managed to tell her how he feels once... when he was grabbing a shotgun from beside the bed and heading out to hunt imaginary enemies. No wonder she doesn’t understand what she means to him. 

“Come on,” he says. “We should get some sleep, too.”

They still have the cot mattresses they used when they were on the road. One of them is stained with dirt, but it doesn’t matter. They bunk down beside the wood stove, pull a few blankets around themselves. Karen eases onto her side and he curls around her, pulling her close.

“Karen.” He speaks into the dark, voice soft.

“Hm?” She doesn’t roll over, but her hand covers his, squeezes. She’s listening.

He hesitates. This should be easier when their lives aren’t in danger, but it isn’t. “What I said—back when I thought we were under attack… I’m sorry.”

There is silence, then she says, “You’re sorry?” She sounds hesitant.

“I shouldn’t have told you like that,” he says. “I thought we were under attack and I panicked. I should’ve told you before—or I should have waited. I just… didn’t want to scare you off.”

If he were the kind of person she deserved, he would have told her weeks ago, when she brought him a cup of coffee in bed, or when she took an hour to coax their stupid cat down from a tree, or when she rolled over in bed and smiled at him. He should have told her every goddamn morning—not when he thought they were both about to be riddled with bullets.

A quake goes through her and _fucking hell_ , she’s crying. He is the son of a bitch that her cry. And then he realizes that she is _laughing_. She is shaking with amusement, hand pressed to her mouth to stifle it.

“What,” he says, bewildered.

“Frank,” she says. “I said I loved you months ago. In the truck, after you were shot.”

He squints into the dark, searches his memories. He comes up blank. Which means… “After I’d passed out?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Suddenly, he feels a bit better about the whole situation. “Christ. And I thought my timing was bad.”

She laughs again. “I love you,” she says. “You know that, right?”

The words shouldn’t matter; he knows how deeply she cares for him. But it does matter. His arm tightens around her. “Yeah.”

He feels her breathing even out, can almost sense the moment she falls asleep. He stays awake for some time, listening to the crackle of the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Cabin life continues... with certain changes. :) 
> 
> <3 <3


	14. Chapter 14

Life changes with the arrival of David and the kids. Frank has grown so used to the small world of the cabin—himself and Karen and their irritating cat—that the sudden influx of people is a bit startling.

He’s grateful to know that they’re alive. It feels like releasing a weight he didn’t realize he was holding. The kids are okay; David is okay. The news about Sarah is a blow because she was a good woman, the kind of person who should have lived. But war has never been fair and survival has little to do with deserving.

Frank does what he can for David—which, one night, is to share a bottle of tequila that the man brought with him, and keep David from passing out in the forest.

“It just sucks, you know?” says David. They’re sitting in the woods, a campfire burning at their feet. “It just—sucks.” His words and grief are blunted by the alcohol, but Frank understands.

Fuck, he understands all too well.

“I thought I’d get the time we needed, you know?” he continues, taking another swig off the bottle. “Things still weren’t back to the way they used to be. She used to look at me like she thought I’d just vanish. I knew it’d take time. Knew she’d get it eventually—that I wasn’t ever leaving again.” He closes his eyes, but tears shine on his face. “Fuck. She died before—fuck. Before we could just be normal again.”

“She knew how much you loved her,” says Frank.

“She loved me,” says David miserably. “But I’m not sure she trusted me. There’s—there’s a difference. Shit. I just wanted to be there, be home again, and then everything went to hell. It was like the universe saying, ‘You thought you could have this? Well, fuck you.’” He glances at Frank blearily. “Sorry, man. I know—I still have my kids, so I shouldn’t be—”

“No,” says Frank. “You lost Sarah. You’ve got as much right to grief as anyone else. Just because I lost… well, it doesn’t make your loss any less, you hear me? So don’t give me that shit.”

The corners of David’s mouth twitch upward. “Sorry about this. I should probably be back at the RV, playing Monopoly with the kids instead of making your girlfriend babysit while I get you drunk in a forest.”

Frank scoffs. “She was the one who told me take you out here. Said that if it were one of her friends, she’d try to give them a night off. And besides, she’s probably relieved to have someone to hang out with other than me.”

David snorts out a laugh. “Honeymoon already over?”

“What honeymoon? We got together during the end of the world.”

“So how’d it happen?” David asks. “You and her—not the end of the world. I was there for that.”

Frank shakes his head. “Hell if I know. She’s... fearless. Fearless and smart and gorgeous. She could walk into a room full of strangers, crook her finger and have her pick of any of them. Never really understood what she saw in me.”

“Ninety-nine percent muscle mass,” David says, utterly deadpan. “You forget, I’ve seen you shirtless. And your jawline could cut glass.”

“You are drunk.”

“Yes,” says David, with utmost sincerity. “Yes I am.”

“Is it helping?”

“Can’t really tell.” He blinks. “I’m glad you have someone, man. I really am. I used to play this sick game with myself—imagining who survived and who didn’t, and what they’d be doing. You—you I pictured trekking through what’s left of New York, with only a sniper rifle to keep you company, trying to hunt the gangs. Finding you here was a nice surprise.”

“Gangs?”

“They’re pretty much what’s running the city. They have smuggling lines for food, medicine. Their own doctors, security. At this point, the government’s all but gone. Trying to hold onto New York was more trouble than it was worth.”

Not for the first time, Frank is glad they left the city as quickly as they did.

“What’s Madani doing?” asks Frank.

David gazes at the fire. “She was promoted up the chain. Took over what was left of Homeland and the NSA, tried to corral everyone into working together. People are fighting her on it. The CIA is still a bunch of bastards, as proven by the fact that I had to run.”

“You didn’t think to go to her?”

David shakes his head. “Couldn’t make contact. She was off on a mission when my superiors started making threats. I think she was flying internationally or something—I couldn’t get in touch. And I wasn’t taking chances. Grabbed what equipment I could, sabotaged the cameras, and got the hell out of dodge.”

“Smart.”

“If I was smarter, I’d have done it to begin with. Like you and Karen.”

“Not you,” says Frank. “I know you. You wanted to help. You’re too decent a person not to try.”

David rolls onto his side. “Answer me this—does it get better?”

Frank has to look away.

“Yes,” he says. “And no.”

“That’s a shitty answer.” David takes another drink, then passes over the bottle.

Tequila has never been Frank’s drink of choice, but he needs a swig before he can continue. He swallows, then says, “Losing family never really goes away. It’s like an old injury—it heals but it still aches sometimes.” He gazes out at the forest. Pale moonlight paints the oak trees into shades of whites and grays—they look like dried bones. “You’ll go for days without thinking about it. Then a smell hits you and it’s just—you’re back there, you know? You’re right fucking there. And then you get mad at yourself, because you _forgot_ for a few days. You forgot them and that makes you a bastard because you’re alive and they’re not. So you prod at that broken place inside you, make it hurt a little more.

“Then, more time passes. The ache fades, and it’ll be weeks before you think about it again. Same thing happens. More time—and then it’ll be months.” Frank’s fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. “These days, the memories hurt a little less. You remember the small shit, the little things that used to make you laugh. You can talk about them, because—because there is someone who wants to listen. And God, don’t ever take that for granted. Most people—they don’t want to hear about grief. It’s messy and it’s ugly, but some people… the good ones, they just get it. And they’ll get you through it.”

Frank glances over, expecting David to be listening.

He’s not.

David is sprawled slackly against the ground, dead to the world.

Frank leans over and checks his breathing. He’s fine—just asleep.

“Some therapist, right?” says Frank dryly, and he adds another log to the fire.

* * *

The next morning, he half-carries David back to the RV.

“Why,” says David, and this is the fifth time he’s said it. “Why, Frank. Why.” Somehow he turns the questions into mournful statements.

“Why, what?”

“Why did I drink so much?”

“Because you needed a night off.”

“Next time, we’re doing something wholesome. Like bowling.”

“We live in a forest.”

“We’ll figure something out.” David unlatches the RV door and stumbles up the stairs. He has leaves in his hair. Frank angles himself inside; he’s a little too tall to fit comfortably. At once, he sees Karen in the kitchenette with Zach. She looks up, face breaking into a smile that has him smiling, too.

“Hey,” she says. “We’re making powdered eggs. You two up for any?”

“Sounds good.” The tiny kitchen is too small for three to fit comfortably so he stands just outside of it, watching as Zach stirs the eggs with surprising ease.

The kid glances at Frank, brows raised. “Did you sleep in the forest?”

“How’d you guess?”

“You have dirt on your jeans,” says Zach. “Also a twig in your beard.”

Frank grimaces a little as he pulls it free. “You have a good time here?” he asks, the question half-directed at Zach, half at Karen.

It’s Karen who answers. “We played Monopoly until midnight. It was pretty cutthroat.” She hands Zach a plate of eggs. “Could you bring your dad these, hun? And tell him to drink some water.” Zach nods and angles himself past Frank. Karen begins distributing the rest of the eggs. “How was boys night?”

It’s the only way she can ask, _How did things go_ , in hearing of the kids.

He shrugs. “Think it went all right. You were right; he needed it.” He nods at the RV interior; Leo is sitting at the kitchen table, folding laundry while Zach forces the plate of eggs into his father’s hands. “Kids weren’t too much trouble?”

“They’re good kids,” says Karen. “No trouble at all.” Pain crosses her face. “They’re a little too well behaved. Like they think something terrible might happen if they didn’t do everything I asked. They’re scared, Frank.”

Frank’s jaw flexes. “Yeah. Haven’t really thought about what this catastrophe has done to kids.”

“They’re going to grow up in a world always knowing it could end at any moment,” says Karen. Her eyes go downcast for a few moments. She breathes, as if she’s trying to focus on that, and then she returns his gaze. “Breakfast first, then lessons?”

He remembers his words from a few days ago. And it seems, so does she.

“Okay,” he agrees.

* * *

Their first combat lesson goes as well as can be expected.

She has taken a few self-defense classes—she tells him as much the first time they go out to the forest. He picks a place thick with fallen leaves, where any falls will be cushioned. The ground is still frozen and hard.

Karen knows how to use a handgun. She can break the hold of someone trying to grab her. She knows the first rule of fighting—which is, only to do so if it’s necessary.

She does not know how to throw a punch.

“What?” she says, seeing his surprise.

“Nothing,” he answers.

There’s something ironic in a woman who has killed before not knowing how to strike a single blow.

They don’t have tape for their hands, so Frank uses the reusable cloth bandages from their first aid kit. He shows her how to wrap her knuckles to protect them, then how to stand. “Feet farther apart,” he says. “Knees slightly bent. Yeah, that’s right. Arms up—protect your neck and head. Dominant hand stays closer to your body. Angle yourself so you’re not facing me straight on.” He uses his hands to gently shift her into position. “Keep your center of balance low.” His hand touches her stomach, and she nods.

“All right, now hit me,” he says.

She stares at him. “What?”

“Hit me,” he repeats.

“Just like that?”

“I want to see what I’m working with.”

She hesitates.

So he lunges. One hand at her arm—the other cradled around the back of her head. Then he sweeps his leg around the back of her knee and yanks her off balance, taking her to the ground.

He’s careful about it, but she lands with enough force to knock the wind out of her. She lays there, dazed, while he squats over her.

She groans and lightly smacks at his chest. “What the hell was that?”

“The reap. Standard move to bring down an opponent,” he says, smiling despite himself. 

She gives him a flat look. “You could have warned me.”

“First rule of a fight, don’t hesitate.”

She glares up at him. “I thought the first rule was only to fight if necessary.”

“Second rule, then. Let’s try again,” he says, and helps her up. She brushes dead leaves from her pants, then gets back into the stance he showed her. She’s a quick learner. “Fists up a little higher. Protect the chin and throat. Elbows down.” She nods, shifting her arms. “Hit me.”

This time, she does.

* * *

New routines are established.

At first, they see the Liebermans every day. David seems glad for the company, and he and Frank spend some time rigging up the well system so that the RV can have running water. Frank knows little of plumbing, but between the two of them, they manage. David brought enough food to last at least five months, and after that, they’ll figure it out. It’s mostly dehydrated meals and emergency rations, so when Karen brings over a bowl of fresh radishes, even the kids seem glad for food that doesn’t come out of a bag.

David has them reading the kinds of books they would have been studying in school; he is determined to keep up with their education, even if the world has been upended. Frank understands; he would have done the same, if it were his kids. Karen offers to help with English and Frank is decent with history and geography. David has math and science covered. Between the three of them, they might actually manage to pull together a decent curriculum. 

The kids are subdued. Frank can’t help but compare their grief to the when he first met them. When they thought their father dead, Leo grew up too quickly and Zach became a surly troublemaker. Now that they’ve lost their mother—and any hopes for a normal life—Leo remains helpful but the spark seems to have gone out of her.  Zach seems torn between quiet vigilance and anxiety. 

It makes Frank’s heart ache for them. They have already dealt with more than any kid should have. 

He takes them on a walk through the forest, showing them the creek and the way down to it. “Might be a nice place for a treehouse,” he says, when they approach one of the larger oaks. “You think?"

Zach doesn’t reply, but Leo says, “Treehouse?"

“Yeah.” He squats down in front of them. “I was thinking. That RV is nice and all, but you guys need some space of your own, right?"

It’s the first time he sees a glimmer of interest from Leo. “Could you?"

“Yeah,” he says. “Not right now, with the snow and everything. But when spring rolls around, I’ll see what we can do, okay? You two pick a tree—any tree in this whole damn forest, okay?"

Leo nods. Zach finally speaks up. “I have to share a treehouse with her?"

“Yes,” Frank replies, smiling. “When I was your age, I would’ve loved a brother or a sister to keep me company. You don’t know how lucky you have it."

Zach and Leo look dubious. 

“Hey, family matters,” he says. “Doesn’t always have to be people you’re related to by blood, but family... you take care of them okay? Make sure they know you care. Even if you’re in a bad mood or tired—” 

_One batch, two batch—_

He bites down on the inside of his cheek. 

“You let your family know you love them, okay?” he says. 

The kids look a little baffled by his insistence, but they nod. If he is able to impart one lesson, let it be this one. Let them never experience the kind of regret he’s had to live with. 

“Fine,” says Zach. “I’ll share a treehouse with her. You don’t have to get weird about it."

Frank laughs, giving the kid a little nudge. “When you get to a certain age, you’re allowed to be weird. Now come on, I’ll show you the creek."

When he brings them back to the RV, the kids are arguing about which oak tree they want. David is working outside, fixing some wires atop the RV. When he hears them, he glances down in confusion. Then he hastens down the ladder. “Were they arguing?"

“Yeah,” says Frank. “Sorry about that."

David gazes after them. “Don’t be sorry. That’s the most animated I’ve seen them in weeks. How’d you do it?"

“Bribed them with a treehouse."

David groans. “Of course you did.” He gives Frank a narrow-eyed look. “You’re going to spoil them, aren’t you? You’re going to be the favorite once they figure out you can build them treehouses and play swords and—"

“I am not going to give them play swords,” says Frank. He considers. “Should teach them gun safety, though."

David throws up his hands. “I give up. They’re going to like you better, I just know it.” But he’s smiling. 

Frank claps him on the shoulder. “I’m going hunting this afternoon, so they’re all yours for now. Dinner at our place... round five?"

“The optimistic hunter,” says David. “Sure, we’ll be there. Not like we have other dinner plans."

Frank turns to go, but Leo calls after him. 

“See you later, Uncle Frank."

Frank’s footsteps falter. For a moment, he cannot move. Then he looks over his shoulder and manages to say, “Later.” His throat is too tight for anything else. 

He does go hunting. He catches sight of a deer, but it vanishes into the undergrowth. He sees a rabbit, too, but he lets it go.

He does find a flock of wild turkeys—and those are fair game.

“I think I love you,” says Karen, when she walks inside to find him roasting the bird. The scent of it drew Campion back into the cabin, and he sits with his nose in the air. Karen must have just showered at the RV; her hair is damp and she smells like fresh soap. 

“That so?” Frank says. He takes a step closer. Her back is to the wall, so it’s easy to press her up against it, to feel the shudder of pleasure that goes through her when he kisses the hollow between her collarbones. There are still a few droplets of moisture there and he licks them away. 

“If that bird burns,” she warns, but she’s breathless, and her hands are on his belt. 

“We’ll just have to multitask,” he says.

They manage well enough.

* * *

About a month after David and the kids arrive, a snowstorm crashes into the mountains.

It takes all of them by surprise, but then again, when has the world ever cooperated with their plans? So Frank spends a few days digging out the walk around their cabin, and finally, on the third day after the storm, manages to hike to David’s RV.

That’s when Zach gets sick.

It starts out as a sore throat, then he’s coughing—and after that, he is wheezing. The fever is high enough that Frank can feel the heat coming off the boy even before he lays his hand across Zach’s forehead. “It happened so fast,” says David. He has the look of a man staring into hell itself. “He’s—I don’t know if it’s a bad flu or an infection.”

“We have antibiotics,” says Frank. “Took them from your place, actually. If it’s viral, though… we don’t have anything for that.”

Frank ends up taking Leo back to the cabin in hopes that she won’t catch what Zach has—a hope that turns false when Leo begins coughing the next day.

They don’t have much medicine, and what they do have is mostly first aid supplies. Frank has little experience with childhood illnesses; he remembers his kids getting sick a few times, but he and Maria could just bundle them up and take them to a real doctor. Now, it’s all they can do to try to keep fluids in the kids. Frank splits his time between the RV and the cabin. Water still needs to be pumped and he can at least make sure the kids have clean sheets and clothes.

He comes into the cabin on the third afternoon to find Karen sitting with Leo beside the wood stove. It is _boiling_ inside and Frank immediately slips out of his coat. “She was cold,” says Karen, moving to greet him. She looks exhausted and worried and flushed from the heat. Leo is wrapped in every blanket they own, and even then, the girl doesn’t stop shivering.

Frank closes his eyes.

He hates this. Hates the helplessness and the waiting.

He and Karen go into the bedroom, out of Leo’s hearing. “I don’t know what else we can do,” says Karen. She hasn’t slept more than a few hours since Frank brought Leo to the cabin—and neither has he, if he’s honest about it. They’re both on their last leg.

“Kids are resilient,” says Frank. It’s the kind of meaningless platitude that he would have snapped at, if anyone else offered it to him. But he can’t think of anything else to say.

Karen closes her eyes, leans into him. She rests her forehead against his shoulder. “We should bring them into town.”

All of the exhaustion drops from him immediately, replaced with a quickening pulse. He pulls back so he can see her face. “What?”

She looks at him steadily. “The doctor—that Emery. She’s in town, right? She could help them.”

Frank glances through the window. The yard is a mess of half-crusted ice and snow. “Yeah. But the roads—” The roads are going to be hell. He knows that. Days of snow and freezing and ice. They could just as easily die in a car crash as succumb to this illness.

But then again—they can’t keep going like this. He can’t keep going like this. If the kids need someone to take them down a mountain, dangerous roads or not, he’ll do it.

“I’ll ask David,” he says. “See what he thinks.”

He already knows what his friend will say—David has been frantic for days now. He’ll grasp at any chance to help his kids.

“Good.” Karen looks at him, and it makes Frank’s stomach tighten with unease. He knows that look. She’s about to say something she thinks will upset him.

“What?” he asks.

She appears to search for words. “There isn’t enough room in the truck for all of us. David will want to go, of course.” She swallows. “And I’m driving.”

His heartbeat thuds. “Karen—”

“I’m driving,” repeats Karen. She holds up a hand to silence his protest. “We don’t have chains or traction tires. Going down a hill in this—we need someone who knows what they’re doing. And you may be an amazing soldier with all sorts of hidden talents, but I learned how to drive in snow. I grew up dealing with black ice, slush—all of it. Between the two of us, I have the better chance of getting them into town.”

He wants to fight her on this. He wants to—but he can’t. Not when it’s the kids’ lives at stake.

“I could ride in the back,” he says.

“You’d freeze to death even if you didn’t fall out.” She wraps her arms around his shoulders, squeezes. “I can do this. You’re going to have to let me do this.”

She’s right.

They end up leaving the next morning, when the pale sunlight has a chance to melt a little of the snow.

Frank and Karen bundle Leo up with two coats and half-carry her to the truck. David meets them there, Zach in tow. David looks even worse than his kids—worn so thin he looks like he might simply break apart. “Thanks,” he says to Karen, who nods. She is dressed in her winter coat, a hat tucked around her ears. A stray strand of hair has escaped the hat and clings to her cheek.

Frank brushes the hair from her cheek. “Be careful,” he says.

“I will. Don’t eat Campion.”

A startled snort escapes him. Even now, she can make him laugh. “I love you,” he says quietly.

She kisses him, and it’s a brief warmth in this cold spring day, and he holds onto that memory as she slips from his fingers and climbs into the truck. He steps back as she pulls on her seatbelt, gives him one last nod, and puts the truck in drive. He stands in the middle of the highway and watches her drive away.

He returns to the cabin, feet moving of their own accord. There are still blankets and sheets strewn near the wood stove and he goes to gather enough laundry to wash. His arms feel too empty; he needs something to fill them with.

Frank does all the chores he can think of: he cleans the RV, scrubs the cabin’s floor, reorganizes the shed, and uses a piece of yarn to entertain Campion. When he can think of nothing else to do, he picks up one of the few books he hasn’t read yet: some fantasy with a shirtless man on the cover who is even more scarred than he is. Frank tries to lose himself in the pages, but his mind keeps wandering. He thinks of Dr. Emery, and wonders if she’s treating the kids. Maybe her daughter is glad to see others her age. Maybe David is asleep on one of those terrible plastic chairs. Karen will probably be talking to the people in town, when she gets a few moments to herself.

The second day, Frank strips and cleans all of the guns in the shed.

The third day, Frank chops wood until his calluses are cracked and bleeding.

The fourth, he runs out of chores. So he begins shoveling snow around the cabin. He works until he’s so exhausted all the worry is burned out of him.

He has never been a religious man. Belief isn’t a thing that is natural to him. But that night, when he’s alone in their bed, Frank quietly says, “Please,” without knowing to whom to address the plea.

* * *

The drive into town is harrowing—Karen white-knuckles her way down the mountains, and finally, relaxes just a fraction when they reach the flat roads. Still, she keeps it slow. The town looks much the same, if a little frozen. There’s no guard at the gate; they must think no one would dare visit in this weather. Karen ends up banging on the fence and shouting until a teenage girl appears. She is wearing ragged clothes and her cheeks are chapped with cold.

“Please,” says Karen. “We need to see the doctor.”

The teenage girl looks at the truck, with David and the kids, then something in her face relents. “Yeah. Come on in.”

Dr. Allison Emery is still at that small clinic. She opens the door, takes one look at the kids, clucks her tongue, and quarantines them all. “Can’t have this spreading,” she says. “You’re staying in the clinic until I’m sure it’s passed. As for your truck, I’ll get someone to disinfect the inside.”

After that, it’s a waiting game.

It’s not as bad as it sounds—the clinic is surprisingly warm and there are cots. Karen simply falls into one, sleeps hard for ten hours, then rises like one of the living dead. She shambles into the waiting room and finds Dr. Emery. She sent her daughter to away, but otherwise, the doctor doesn’t seem all that concerned.

“You and that other man are all right,” Emery says, when Karen looks at her questioningly. “Whatever this is, it isn’t hitting the adults.”

“Will the kids get better?” asks Karen. She’s too drained to be tactful.

Dr. Emery shrugs. “They’re kids. Most of the time, they bounce back. But I think you were right to bring them here—since I gave them the antivirals, they seem to be doing a little better.”

“Thank you,” says Karen and means it. “Here—I’m not sure if this works as payment, but here.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a potted plant. She grew it from a cutting—something that took her three tries. The result is the tiniest of cannabis plants.

The doctor tilts her head. “Is that a…?”

“Pot,” says Karen. “Yeah.”

Dr. Emery picks up the small planter. “You grew this yourself?”

“On the advice of a few college students.”

Emery’s mouth twitches. “Of course. We’re going to need more painkillers soon, and this could be helpful if I can keep it alive. At the very least, it could mellow out my most irritating patients.” She considers. “Or make me more mellow when dealing with them.”

David comes out of one of the rooms. He looks harried and about ten years older—and then he sees the plant in the doctor’s hands.

“Is this some new pneumonia treatment I don’t know about?” he asks.

Karen laughs, but it sounds more tired than amused. “No, no.” She gestures at the plastic chairs and David sits on one. The doctor vanishes into the back rooms, taking her new plant with her. Karen sits beside David.

“How are they?” she asks.

David leans his elbows on his knees. “Better, I think. Fever’s gone down.”

“Good,” she says softly. “That’s good.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, then David says, “Wonder how things are back home.”

Home. The word makes Karen ache just a little.

She says, “If I know Frank, he’ll be trying to work himself into a coma. When we get back, he’ll probably have built you a house. Complete with separate bedrooms for the kids.”

David smiles briefly. “You ever think about it? Having kids? I mean, humanity’s going to need another baby boom.”

The question feels like a bucket of cold water over her head.

“Um,” she says. “David… I don’t know if that’s… I mean, the last time I was in this clinic, I had someone slice a hole in my arm specifically to prevent that.”

“So that’s a no?”

Karen gestures around them. “Look at this place. Look at the town—the world is barely holding itself together. I’m not sure I’d want to bring a kid into it.”

“I don’t know.” David’s gaze tracks toward the exam room. “They’re pretty much all that kept me going in those first few weeks. They’re a reason to push ahead when all we want to do is give up.” He raises both brows. “And hey, at least yours and Franks’ kid would be able to reach things on the high shelves.” He gives her a knowing look. “You want kids?”

Kids have always been this nebulous thing she’s pushed to the back of her brain. They’re other people, for safe people, for those with money and stable lives. It’s not like she has anything against kids—she likes Leo and Zach. “Frank might not want to do that again. I mean—I know we’re… together. I know he loves me. But before, I mean Frank was—very determined to keep his distance. If this catastrophe hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be together. He said as much.”

David stares at her.

“What?” she says.

“You know,” he says, a little too casually. “Frank and I spent a lot of time together. Roomies and all that. I like to think I know him pretty well—and that man is not easy to spook. I watched him fight his way through an army of special forces with an arrow shaft in his shoulder. I saw him tied to a chair and brutally beaten. I watched him pull shrapnel out of his own arm without flinching. Hell, I drugged him with sedative disguised as a pen when he thought I wanted to kill him, and that only pissed him off. In all the time we worked together, I only ever saw Frank Castle panic once—when someone was threatening _you._ ”

“Oh,” she says. The word feels inadequate. 

David nods. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a surprise when I found you two together. And if kids are something you want, I doubt he’d say no.”

She still isn’t sure if kids _are_ a thing she wants—and she definitely doesn’t want them right now. Things are still too tenuous. “Well, I’m still not sure. And I’m not going to put that on him unless I’m absolutely certain.”

David shakes his head in rueful amusement. “You and him are a good match.”

“What?”

“You’re both ready to strangle anyone that looks at the other wrong.”

“I—I am not,” she begins to say, then falters. Because maybe she is a little protective of Frank. She’s seen him hurt too many times. She doesn’t want to see it again.

Instead, she says, “Did you really drug him with a pen?”

“In my defense, he’d stripped me naked and tied me to an office chair.”

“And I thought I had bad roommates.”

* * *

They leave the clinic after five days.

Zach and Leo are on the mend and the snow is well on its way to melting. The roads will be slushy, but it’s still less dangerous than ice.

Karen surprises herself by hugging Dr. Emery before they go. She’s come to like the doctor—brisk bedside manner and all. Emery looks surprised but not displeased. “You take care of those kids,” she says. “And don’t crash on the way back to wherever you’re going. I’d hate for all those medications to be wasted.”

David sits between Leo and Zach, arms around them both. Karen gets behind the wheel again, taking several deep breaths before putting the truck in drive. Forty miles. It’s just forty miles between herself and home. She yearns for the familiarity of the cabin—the smell of forest and the sound of the fire in the wood stove. She misses Frank. God, she misses him.

Even so, she drives with care. She leans over the steering wheel, fingers clamped down hard and jaw so tight a headache sets up behind her ears. The truck shudders a few times going downhill, struggling with the slush. She grits her teeth and goes even slower, so that if they slide off the road it won’t matter. David speaks quietly with his kids; Leo is talking about Dr. Emery and how cool being a doctor is, and maybe she could do that, too. Zach is more concerned with watching the road, as if his own vigilance might keep them on it.

It takes half the day to get home.

Pulling into the thicket has never been more of a relief. Karen gets out, leans on her aching legs. She and David quickly pull the fallen branches around the truck. “Thank you,” he says. She looks at him. “For this.”

She nods. “Yeah, of course.”

They part ways. David and the kids head for the RV while Karen treks in the direction of the cabin. Even with the half-melted snow, she knows her way. She sees the smoke first—gray twining up through the mists, cutting a path into the sky. Karen slides down the last ridge. The wood pile looks twice as full as when she left—of course Frank kept busy. She pulls open the cabin door and steps inside.

She finds Frank asleep in the rocking chair, Campion on his lap.

For a heartbeat, she simply watches him. He must be exhausted to be taking a nap in the middle of the day—and to not hear her come in. She hangs her coat on the hook beside the door, and Campion raises his head. He meows a greeting and Frank snaps awake with such force that the cat goes scurrying away.

“Hi,” says Karen, smiling.

He’s across the room in three strides. “The kids?” he asks, a little hoarse.

“They’re both fine,” she says. “David’s fine. The truck is fine.” She winds her arms around his neck and holds on tight. “They’re back at the RV, if you want to say hi.”

“Later,” says Frank. He doesn’t let go. “Later.”

They eat together, and Karen doesn’t comment on the size of their woodpile or the scabs along his fingers. She knows what it feels like to watch him walk away without knowing if she’ll ever see him again. It has happened so many times she’s almost lost count. He is less practiced at it. So she keeps up a steady chatter of what happened in town, how the doctor is doing, the kids’ griping about having to stay in bed for so long, and how David told her a few of the more embarrassing stories of when they were living together.

By the time they’re finished, Frank looks a little more human. She wonders how long it’s been since he ate a full meal.

She picks up _Watership Down_ —it has been a few weeks since they read from it together. Karen reads this time; Frank’s fingers curl through her hair, stroking until she thinks she might simply fall asleep mid-sentence.

This—this is enough for her. It doesn’t matter if they ever have a family or if they live out the rest of their days in this cabin, far away from the rest of humanity.

This is more than enough.


	15. Chapter 15

Spring comes to the mountains.

Frank goes to work on raised garden beds behind the cabin. He and David end up going into the nearby town for supplies, bringing a few wild turkeys to trade with. When they return, it is with seeds and fertilizer. The kids have fun with it, digging rows and helping pull weeds. Karen is glad for the raised beds; they will have these gardens for food, as well as the acorns from the nearby oak trees. According to some of the people in town, the tannins can be leached away, and the acorns can be ground into a decent flour.

Karen takes over the gardens. It’s something to do—and she likes it. The kids help sometimes, but more often it’s Zach and Leo collecting worms so they can toss them to the tiny fish in the nearby creek.

When the weather has cleared, David unearths a few pieces of equipment that he saved for the warmer months of the year—an antenna and a modified dish satellite receiver. Karen watches with some interest as David rigs them up atop the RV, plugging them into his computer. He manages to run all of his equipment off the solar panels, and when he’s finished, he looks exhausted but pleased.

“What is this?” Karen asks.

“We’re able to tap into nearly every satellite that the NSA and CIA has access to,” he says, smiling. “And a few that they don’t.” He shrugs. “I figure we might as well know what’s going on. It’s not quite the internet, but at least we can get news.”

Karen takes an involuntary step toward the laptop. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

Her fingers itch for the keyboard. She hasn’t touched a computer in far too long. “Could I—could I use that to transcribe my notes? I’ve been taking them since… well, since everything fell apart. I’d like to have a back-up somewhere.”

“Sure.” He gestures at the receiver. “I’ll show you how to tap into the signals, if you want. A lot of it’s encrypted, but some isn’t.”

Karen means to only spend a few hours working on the laptop. 

She loses a week instead. 

She is awash in information, drunk on it. Reports from military outposts, confidential memos, firsthand accounts of what is happening at the nuclear plants, detailed notes on how to keep the dams running, attempts to establish more camps, threatening letters between elected officials and the federal government. It goes on and on. Every day, the world puts itself back together—and it falls apart a little more.

Karen barely has any memories of those days passing—it’s all a blur of typing notes, running numbers, looking at the news feeds she shouldn’t be viewing. It is a floodgate of information, until she is seeing double and can’t remember which pages she has transcribed. She returns to the cabin for food and sleep, but little else. 

On the seventh day, she falls sleep at the laptop and wakes in bed—in the cabin.

“You kidnapped me,” she murmurs, when she finds Frank beside her.

“You were drooling on David’s kitchen table,” he says. “Sure it’s a fold-out piece of plastic, but still. He came for me when you started snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Ask Zach.”

“Even if I do snore, he wouldn’t rat on me.” Her neck aches and eyes feel gritty. “It’s just… a lot. A lot of new information I never thought I’d have. Did you know that they’re testing the ash particles for DNA now? Trying to see if they can get solid matches, see who was lost and who wasn’t.” She grimaces. “It’s difficult though, because ash has a tendency to… you know. Fly away. Get rained on. Mix with everything else. So it’s a lot of long shots.”

“Hey, hey,” he says, catching her by the chin. She looks at him. There’s a hint of worry in his dark eyes. “Don’t get lost in this, okay?”

“I won’t—“

“I know you,” he puts in. “So I’m asking you. Please.”

She knows what he’s asking for—because it would be easy to vanish into those files. To reappear when it’s time for food or rest. She could remake herself into a cold creature with facts and numbers, tune out everything else for the sake of her cause.

She won’t do that.

“Okay,” she says. “I promise—I’ll try to keep it balanced.”

After that, she only uses the laptop once a week to transcribe her notes and check on the news.

* * *

David and Karen go into town in March.

It is supposed to be a general supply run: flour, salt, gasoline, and a few other essentials. But when Karen comes back to the cabin, she is carrying a cardboard box with holes in the top.

Frank is stacking more wood, and he raises his eyebrows when the box makes a peeping noise. “What is that?” he asks, a little warily.

She grins at him. Then she pulls the lid of the box open. Five orange and black fluff balls are inside. One of them looks up at him—all beady eyes and sharp beak. It squeaks at him.

“Chickens,” says David, setting down another box. “They’re some kind of layer breed—hopefully they’re not all roosters. Although we could eat them, if they are,” he says as a more hopeful afterthought. “I thought raising the chickens might give the kids something to do. And hey, eggs.”

“You going to keep them in the RV?” asks Frank.

David hesitates.

Frank hears the answer in David’s silence.

“You want me to build a coop for them, don’t you?” he says.

“Fresh eggs man,” says David. “You like scrambled eggs.”

Frank heaves another log onto the pile.

“We bought wire,” says Karen. “We can set up a fenced area for them—so they can go outside without getting eaten by something.” She reaches into the box, stroking one of the chicks with her forefinger. “Look at them. You don’t want to see them get eaten by foxes, right?”

He glances into the box again. Objectively speaking, they are cute. Tiny balls of feathers on legs squeaking at one another. “You just keep me around for my woodworking skills, don’t you?”

“Well, that and sex,” says Karen, kissing his cheek. David coughs somewhere behind her.

They end up constructing a coop near the RV. The kids are enchanted with the baby chicks, and even Frank admits the work is worth it just to see Leo and Zach so excited. “There’s five,” says Leo. “So we all get to name one. What’re you going to pick, Aunt Karen?”

Karen shrugs. “I’ve never named a chicken. Do we give them normal names or something like ‘Clucky?’”

“We both know you’re going to name yours Kehaar,” says Frank, setting some of the fencing in place. He speaks around a nail tucked into the corner of his mouth.

“Kehaar was a seagull not a chicken,” says Karen.

David holds up the roll of fencing so Frank can attach it. “What are you two talking about?”

“The bird in _Watership Down_ ,” says Frank.

“What’s that?” asks Zach. He has one of the chicks carefully cupped between his palms; it keeps trying to peck at at his fingernail.

“Children’s book,” says Karen.

Leo perks up. “Can I read it?”

“Sure,” says Karen, at the same time Frank says vehemently, “No.”

* * *

Frank never thought he could be content living anywhere but New York. Part of him wondered how Gunner could do it—live in the middle of nowhere.

Now, he understands.

There is a rough beauty to the mountains, a raw honesty in scraping out a living here. There are fewer complications—rent, taxes, security cameras, police, shitty coworkers. It is dangerous; every cut and scrape has to be carefully washed, just in case it festers. Illnesses are taken more seriously. Resources are limited. Even so, Frank finds satisfaction in his new life.

Karen takes to fighting like she does everything else—with a thin-lipped determination. She isn’t a natural; she has a tendency to bounce around, which makes it easy to unbalance her and knock her to the ground. She has to work to keep her feet planted, to move in that boxer’s shuffle. They work out together, too. She needs a bit more upper body strength to really land a blow, and she seems glad for the exertion. She sleeps better on the days when they’ve gone for a run beside the creek. When he isn’t teaching her hand-to-hand, he works on her knowledge of guns. She has a good foundation and she’s a decent shot, but she doesn’t know how to use anything other than the basic sidearm. He takes her through the processes of loading and cleaning the shotgun, the rifles, even that dinky little SMG that Gunner stashed away.

“You should just take the P90 for yourself,” he says, when he’s finished one afternoon. They’ve been aiming at a knot on a dead tree; the oak is pockmarked with rounds. “It fits your shoulder better than the rifles. Save your handgun as a backup weapon.”

“Anticipating another fight?”

“Always,” he says simply.

He has been setting up his own traps around the perimeter, marking the trees nearby so the kids, David, and Karen will be able to recognize the dangerous places. He doesn’t want any of them setting off a tripwire—but nor can he leave the area unguarded. David’s easy approach was proof enough that they need better security.

David has been settling into the forest in his own way. He set up the RV—solar panels, working shower, even a functional kitchen. It’s small, but far more modern than the cabin. During the day, David has his own version of homeschooling the kids. He brought books with him: basic textbooks, some literature, and, most importantly, handbooks. An army field manual. Foraging cookbooks. Basics on carpentry and wiring.

Karen sorts through the books with a kind of wild-eyed avarice. “Can I borrow this?” she asks, picking up one of the cookbooks.

“Of course,” says David. “My house on wheels is your house on wheels.”

The next day, Frank finds a mason jar with white sludge at the bottom. He looks at it. Considers throwing it out.

“Don’t touch my starter,” Karen warns, and he puts the jar down.

“You’re starting what?” he says.

“Starter.” She runs a finger down the glass affectionately. “I’ve been reading about baking breads. We don’t have any yeast and we’re out of baking powder. If we want bread, this is how we do it.”

Frank stares at the sludge. “It looks like something you’d find under a teenage boy’s bed.”

She elbows him. “You’re a perv. And laugh all you want—see if I share my bread.”

He leaves the strange jar alone. Karen tends to it the way she does her tiny garden: feeding it with flour and water once a day, and making sure it’s in a warm part of the cabin. It’s strange, but it’s not the strangest thing he’s ever seen Karen do—so he goes along with it.

Five days later, the white sludge is bigger. And frothing.

“Is it supposed to do that?” asks Frank skeptically.

“According to the book, yes.” She has the cookbook open on her flour-stained knees. “I remember you saying you helped bake for your kids fundraisers.”

“I cooked,” he says. “As for bake sales—Maria used to trade babysitting duties with our neighbor in exchange for home-baked cookies. She’d pass them off as her own and I’d bring them to the school, if I were at home.”

She laughs at that. “I’m trying to imagine you ferrying cookies to a bake sale. The PTA moms must have loved you.” She nods, then places the cookbook on the table. “Okay. Give me flour and salt and we’ll have bread by tomorrow.” She waves him out of the kitchen.

What follows is… well, Frank could say he’s seen battlefields less chaotic and he wouldn’t be wholly lying. Flour goes flying; Karen is sweating as she stokes their wood stove to high temperatures; Campion flees when he tries to eat a spattering of dough and coughs it back up; Frank stays out of the way and watches with mild interest.

About eight hours later, she wraps a vaguely loaf-shaped thing in tinfoil and crams it into the stove.

“Jesus Christ,” she gasps. “How much work goes into a single loaf of sourdough bread?”

“A lot, apparently,” he says. “Now I feel bad that it’s the only kind of toast I ordered.” He nods at the stove. “Won’t it catch fire?”

“It’s all coals in there,” she says. She wipes a hand across her face. “I let it burn down.” She looks at him. “If this works, we should build an actual oven. We could do it in the backyard.”

“We’ll see,” says Frank.

Finally, Karen pulls on oven mitts and withdraws the loaf. She places it on the counter and pulls apart the tin foil. Steam rises into the air.

Frank comes over, interested.

The loaf doesn’t have the perfect oval shape of the bread on the cookbook’s cover. But it looks like bread. And neither of them has had fresh bread in months. Frank can almost feel his stomach trying to scale his ribcage to get at the loaf. Karen holds up a hand.

“We have to let it sit before we can try it,” she says. “Something about… I don’t know. Gluten setting up or crust hardening—I forget.”

They last twenty minutes. Then Karen begins hacking away at it.

They don’t have butter or jam—but the bread really doesn’t need it. It tastes like—fuck, Frank can’t even describe it. It tastes like sitting in a sun-warmed booth at a diner and ordering toast or walking into a bakery in Queens. It tastes like a lot of things he thought he would never have again.

“You,” he says, “are amazing.”

Karen chews her own mouthful before saying, “It still looks funny.”

“Probably because it was crammed in the stove. We can build that oven.”

“Oh, now you’re interested.” But she is grinning and she flicks a crumb from his beard.

“All we need is another wild turkey and then we could have sandwiches.”

“Well, you’re still the better shot, so I’m leaving the hunting to you.” She looks down at her half-eaten bread. “We’re doing all right, aren’t we?”

They are. Between the gardens, his hunting, her snares, and now this…

He pulls her into his lap. She rests her hand on his chest, smiling at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “We are.”

* * *

In early April, Frank’s nightmares go from occasional to nightly.

He wakes gasping, the copper of blood sticky on his skin and dry tang of gunpowder still in his mouth. The sensations linger for a few heartbeats, and he’s still there—in his bedroom with Maria dying on the floor.

“Frank.” There’s a hand on his wrist and his first instinct is to break that grip, wrest himself free of it and pin his attacker to the wall, and—

“Frank.”

He blinks the sight of Maria away—and then his hands are clean and all he can taste is the wood of the cabin. The hand on his wrist is smooth and familiar, her thumb stroking back and forth. Calling him back.

He leans over his own knees. He sweats like he’s fevered, and the memory is so strong that he can’t quite push it away. His heartbeat is too fast, vision swimming, and Karen is right there and he doesn’t trust himself. Not in this moment. Not with her. So he pushes the blankets aside and gets out of bed. He strides out of the bedroom, past Campion who is asleep in the rocking chair, and outside.

The fresh night are feels good and cool against his bare skin. He stands there, on the steps, and just breathes. One inhalation after another, until he feels more like himself.

It feels like the nightmare loosens its hold on him, but the pain of it lingers. He can still hear his kids, hear Maria, the sounds intermingled with that of carousel songs.

He doesn’t return inside until dawn has begun to touch the horizon and Campion is scratching at the door to be let outside.

Frank walks into the cabin and finds Karen at the table, her hands wrapped around a cup of nettle tea. She looks up at him, and he knows she didn’t sleep after he left the bed. “Sorry,” he says, voice a bit scratchy.

She shakes her head, pushes another cup of tea toward him. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

He wakes the next night, and the one after that. Sometimes it’s a quiet inhalation and other times he thrashes himself awake, trying to escape the bedcovers like they’re holding him down. The dreams are half memory and half cobbled-together horrors. He sees his daughter again and again, and this time, the book is in his hands and it’s smudged so he can’t read the words.

_One batch. Two batch—_

He wakes, and he finally understands.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow’s the day.

It’s almost the anniversary of his family’s death, and he didn’t remember until his goddamn nightmares reminded him.

He sits up, pulls the blankets away. He’s too warm, feverish with the lingering realization.

“Hey, hey,” Karen says. She hasn’t touched him, not since that first night. He asked her not to—just in case. He doesn’t trust himself in those moments between dreaming and waking. “You okay?”

“Three years,” he says. “It’s almost been three fucking years—and I forgot. It’s tomorrow, and I forgot.”

She is quiet, so he glances at her. She doesn’t look surprised.

“You knew,” he says.

“Yeah, I knew.” Her hair is half-pulled back into a messy bun. She started doing that a few months ago when he kept finding blonde hairs in his mouth.

He presses a hand to his eyes. “It’s different. Without calendars around everywhere—shit. I should’ve known.”

“You’re exhausted,” she says. “Frank… if there’s anything I can do…”

“There isn’t.” He lets his hand fall away, and he gazes at the dark wall. The sun won’t come up for several hours. And he imagines trying to lay down again, to rest, and the thought makes him physically ill. He can’t do it.

“Maybe you should sleep in the RV for a few nights,” he says. “You should get some rest.”

“Frank, it’s okay,” she says. “I don’t mind a little less sleep. And I don’t—leaving you with this—”

“I am alone with this,” he says flatly. “Whether you’re here or not.”

That is what he’s learned about loss—it isolates. Even if another person grieves, it’s never quite the same. It affects people in ways that can’t be predicted nor wholly understood. He has seen enough of loss to observe how some people take it with a quiet shake of the head while others fall apart completely. Some people recover, others don’t. Frank’s grief was the kind he could sharpen into anger, into action, but now that there’s no one left to kill, he’s alone with it. With shaking hands and dreams that won’t leave him. And Karen—who he wants to snap at because she’s not Maria and fuck, he doesn’t want her to be Maria but all of it is jumbled and painful, and he doesn’t know what to do. He is a caged wolf scratching at the walls, biting himself and his only companion because there is no way out and nothing to hunt.

He is thinking of a headstone, of carved words that he would trace with his fingers. Of sitting on carefully mown grass and murmuring, _I miss you, I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry—_

He won’t be able to visit their graves this year.

And even if he knows they’re not really there, part of him still feels like he’s abandoned them. Again.

That morning, he packs a backpack. He takes enough food for a few days, a couple bottles of water and iodine so he can purify more.

Karen watches him work in silence. She hasn’t spoken much since that morning. “I need a day or two,” he says, straightening. The backpack hangs from his shoulder.

She nods. “Okay.”

He half-expected an argument, so this easy acceptance throws him off balance.

“Just—don’t stay away for my sake, all right?” she says. “If you need time to yourself, that’s fine. I get it. But if you’re doing this because you think you’re bothering me or putting something on me that I didn’t want—don’t.” She takes hold of his arm, gives him a squeeze. “Just… take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will,” he says, and he means it. Not for his sake—but for hers. And the kids and David. He’s not about to do something stupid, not when they need him. He kisses her cheek, and then he steps away.

He needs this. He needs to be on the move.

He takes the hunting rifle from the shed and walks into the mountains.

He doesn’t look back.

Gunner picked a good place to make his home. The mountain forests are lush with spring greenery, full of life and an abundance of birdsong. Frank’s strides eat up the distance between the wilderness and the cabin, and in less than half a day, Frank knows he is far out of reach.

The exertion feels good. He falls into old habits—scouting out the landscape, finding places to refill his water bottles and a safe shelter to sleep for the night. It isn’t overly cold when the sun goes down; he listens to the night calls of insects. Frank closes his eyes and tries to sleep. The nightmares come again, as they always do. This time he’s on the carousel and Billy is there, smiling that charming smile of his, a rifle in his hand. He raises it to Frankie’s temple, and pulls the trigger before Frank can get there in time. Frank comes awake with a snarl, and finds himself face-to-face with a raccoon. It has its little paws on his pack, and seems frozen by Frank’s sudden movement. “Get out of here,” he says, and the creature scampers.

Frank runs a hand across his face.

He doesn’t try to forget the nightmares. There’s no use—he’ll remember them whether he wants to or not. And maybe this is his punishment, to remember. The weight of those memories forces him down, and he leans back against the tree, fingers clenched.

He is glad he doesn’t have a watch; he isn’t tempted to glance at the time. There is no sick countdown to the moment it happened, no way to track the hours. He finds a deer trail, instead, and tries to follow it. He needs something to occupy himself.

There are tracks along the trail—he sees footprints belonging to a raccoon, which doesn’t surprise him, given that morning’s visitor. The trail winds down into a small valley, and to a nearby stream. A rabbit darts out of sight, scurrying into the bushes.

 _Prince with a thousand enemies,_ he thinks, and moves on.

When the sun is overhead, he finds the deer. But he doesn’t fit his rifle to his arm; rather, he goes still and lowers himself to the ground.

It’s a female—he knows because there’s a fawn beside it. It has those spindly legs and white spots and seems more interested in nuzzling at dandelions than in the man twenty feet away. The mother has better sense; her ears prick up and then she bounds into the undergrowth. The fawn scrambles after, clumsy in its haste.

It’s beautiful.

Lisa would have loved to see this.

Frank closes his eyes, feels the hot burn of grief against his eyelids, and lets some of it shake through him.

* * *

Frank returns after another day.

He takes the journey slowly, methodically. He returns with a freshly shot grouse and a bag of dandelion greens.

Karen is weeding in the garden—pulling up small tufts of sprouts and tossing them to one side. When a branch cracks beneath his boot, she looks up sharply.

She rises, and there’s dirt on her knees and on her gloves. He pulls her into a hug and she smells of damp earth and greenery and clean sweat. He breathes her in. Breath after breath—and then he says, “Hey.” It feels inadequate.

“Hey,” she answers softly. He holds on for another few moments, and she gives him that time.

They return to the cabin together, and he appreciates that she doesn’t try to fill the silence between them. She understands and he has never appreciated that more. David would have tried to chatter at him; Curt would have gently tried to pry him open, but Karen simply works beside him as they pluck the grouse and wash the greens.

He reaches for her, feathers and down still clinging to his fingers, and she blinks a little in surprise. “Frank?”

His forehead brushes hers. “Thanks,” he says. Because he knows she hates it when he apologizes.

“I didn’t do anything,” she murmurs.

He almost laughs.

She believed him when no one else did. She fought for him when no one else stepped up. She risked her life, her safety, her career to protect him. And she trusted him, still trusts him, despite seeing everything that he’s done.

Karen looks as though she knows where his thoughts have gone. “I chose you, Frank. All of you. Got that?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I got that.”

* * *

 

In late April, Frank begins work on a treehouse for the kids. He seems to need a new project; it’s more intricate than the flower beds or a chicken coop, and he throws himself into the work.

At first, he doesn’t let anyone watch him work. He vanishes into the woods for hours at a time, and when he returns he smells of fresh cut wood. Karen manages to be patient for a week or so, but she finally asks what he’s doing. “I want it to be a surprise for the kids,” he admits. “They picked the location, but—I don’t know. It’s probably stupid, but the first time they see it, I’d like to have finished it."

“That’s not stupid.” Karen smiles at him. “Can I see it, though?” 

So he leads her through the woods, fingers laced with hers. There are new buds on the trees, fresh grass peaking through the half-rotted leaves, and even the scent of the forest has changed. It smells greener, somehow. 

The treehouse is half-built: a skeleton of planks. “How did you do this?” she asks, a little in awe. 

Frank shrugs. “Tools in the shed. Found a decent looking tree and cut it down. Most of the work is hauling everything up with ropes and making sure it’s secure.” He sounds baffled by her admiration, as if anyone could have managed to build a treehouse by hand.

“Oh my God, you really are a hot lumberjack,” she says, a laugh in her voice. “All you need is flannel.”

He seems mildly amused. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She takes a few steps toward the treehouse, gazing upward. She can imagine loving a place like this when she was younger.

“It’s perfect,” she says.

Some of the good humor seems to leave him. He glances away, and she knows he’s seeing ghosts. “Never did this for my kids,” he says quietly. “Wasn’t around enough. Always thought I’d get to it next time, after my next tour, next year, but then…”

He’ll never not blame himself for what happened to his family. She knows that—just like she knows she can’t change his mind. So she doesn’t try.

“Zach and Leo are lucky to have you,” she says.

He scoffs a little.

“No,” she says, and reaches over, places her hand along his jaw. “They are. Just like I am. You got that? If you weren’t here, none of us would be alive. We all would’ve died before the end of the world happened.”

Surprise ripples across his face.

“David told me how you helped save his family,” she continues. “If you hadn’t been around, that Rawlins probably would’ve killed his family and him. As for me—Lewis would have shot me in the hotel."

She feels a muscle flex in his cheek, twitching beneath her fingertips. “So you believe me when I say we’re lucky to have you,” she says. “Got that?”

He nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“None of that,” she says, smiling. “You can’t always distract me with ‘ma’am,’ you know."

He laughs. Then he tilts his head, kisses her palm, then her wrist. She never really through of wrists as an erogenous zone before but the scrape of his teeth against her pulse has her drawing in a sharp breath. He hears it, and there’s a wicked glint to his eyes.

“Come here,” she says, and draws him close.

The treehouse is finished in May, and the kids are delighted by it. Leo is the first one up the ladder—wooden rungs nailed into the tree trunk itself—and clamoring into the tiny house. Her face appears in one of the cut-out windows. She is grinning wider than Karen can remember. Zach is close at her heels. 

“Thank you,” says David. “It’s… been a little tight in the RV.” Then he backtracks. “I mean, I love my kids and—"

“You need space, too, man,” says Frank. “No shame in that.” 

“Think you could build me a new bunker?"

“Don’t get greedy.”

They watch the kids for a while, then David returns to the RV. Frank and Karen head back toward the cabin; his arm is around her and they walk slowly, thoughtfully. 

Campion greets them at the door—he has half a mole in his mouth and Frank sighs before kneeling down to pry the rodent free before Campion can bring it inside. The cat looks irritated for all of three seconds, then he throws himself at Karen’s legs, meowing plaintively. She picks him up, and he tucks himself into the hollow of her neck, his purr lurching through him unsteadily. She holds on a little tighter. 

Frank just shakes his head. 

“We should get a dog,” she says. “A nice big one, that can scare off predators and will be good with the kids.” 

“Yeah?” He seems cheered by the prospect. 

“Hey, you were the one who vetoed those puppies back in Pennsylvania."

“Because hauling around five feral dogs right after the world ended was probably not the best idea.” He scratches Campion under the chin and the cat closes his eyes. “It might be nice, though. Now that we do have a place."

“Next time we go into town, we’ll ask around,” says Karen. 

Dogs and treehouses aren’t fixes, she knows. But they’re still good. They’re comforts in a world with so few of them. And besides, she likes the idea. 

It feels like putting down a few more roots. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs to everyone!! <3


	16. Chapter 16

Karen likes her garden. There are plants to be watered, animals to be kept out, weeds to be plucked. It needs her and she needs a purpose. Her notebook has gone a bit neglected in the past few months; the reports coming from David’s laptop aren’t anything they don’t know. The world continues to decline and rise up in the same breath.

Famines have begun. The cities with outbreaks of measles, whooping cough, and flu are strictly quarantined. Some highways have been declared unusable, and others cordoned off for strict government use. International trade routes are shaky and several companies have simply folded under the weight of it all. Luxuries are a thing of the past; people are more concerned with food and medicine than perfume or cell phones. The economy is all but gone, and martial law hasn’t been lifted.

The Avengers remain out of touch. David has heard rumors that there was some kind of space launch—but he couldn’t corroborate that either way.

Frank has seemed a little better in the last few weeks. His nightmares have become less frequent, and she’s grateful. Not because she minds waking early, but because he looks less haunted after he’s had a good night’s sleep. He has taken to teaching the kids geography and that seems to help more than anything else. And David is always glad for the help.

One morning, Karen brings her pot of white roses outdoors. The leaves have been browning at the tips, and she fears that leaving the roses in the same pot for so long will kill them. She picks a place to the side of the cabin, where there is a slight part in the oak trees. She hopes there will be enough sunlight. She spends a few hours digging out a place, pulling up rocks and old roots, carving up the soil until it’s loose and damp. Then she carefully removes the roses from their pot and places them in the hole, filling the edges in before soaking the ground with water. She uses a bit of the fertilizer meant for the garden. It’s probably an indulgence that they can’t afford, but she wants the roses to live.

It takes about a week for Frank to notice the transplant. He walks out of the bedroom and says, “The roses are gone.”

“What?” Karen is sweeping the cabin clean; the downside of warmer weather is more dust seems to get inside. Not to mention Campion has started to shed.

“The roses,” says Frank. “I didn’t move them—I don’t know where—”

“I transplanted them,” she says. “It’s fine. They looked like they needed more space, so I planted them beside the cabin. Look.” She gestures to the kitchen window. Frank goes to look, and his face relaxes.

“You planted them,” he says.

She straightens, hair damp with sweat along her brow and fingers still wrapped around the broom. “Yeah. I mean—they were looking a little worse for wear.”

He looks at her, and there’s something in his face she can’t quite grasp. “What?” she says again. Then he’s taking the broom from her hands, and she finds herself crowded up against the counter, Frank’s arms caging her in. If it were anyone else, it would have felt like entrapment. But Frank’s body flush against hers feels like slipping into a comfortable shirt or into a hot bath. He’s warm and familiar, and she relaxes into him.

“What?” she says for a third time.

“You planted them outside,” he says again, as if this is supposed to make sense to her. His fingers curl around her hips. He kisses her, and she’s unsure what brought this on—but it’s not like she’s complaining. Particularly when he lifts her onto the counter, unbuttons her pants, works them down around her ankles. His mouth is warm and eager against hers, and there is no mistaking the intent in his face when he kneels before her. She has no idea what brought this on, but it’s not as if she’s complaining. Her breath catches as he kisses her thigh, then the other, mouth wandering higher. It feels sinful and decadent to be doing this in their kitchen in broad daylight, and then all thoughts slip away as his mouth brushes the hem of her panties. She can feel his breath on her, and God, she wants him.

“Frank,” she says.

His eyes meet hers—all dark, liquid heat, and—

The front door swings open.

“Hey, Dad said—” says Leo, then freezes.

For a heartbeat, everything is still. Frank is situated between Karen’s thighs and Karen clearly isn’t wearing pants and there’s Leo in the doorway.

Then Zach comes up behind her and says, “What’s going on,” and Leo tackles him. They vanish from the doorway and there’s a crashing noise as they hit the ground.

Karen lunges to get off the counter—and her bare knee slams into Frank’s face.

Frank hits the far wall, stunned.

“Oh, shit,” says Karen. “Frank—”

Outside, Zach is saying, “What the fuck, Leo,” and Leo is snapping, “Language,” at the same time Karen is chanting, “Shit, shit, shit,” under her breath. They didn’t lock the door. Of course neither she nor Frank locked the door—it’s the middle of the day. She just wasn’t thinking—of course she wasn’t thinking—

Frank rises, still looking a little dazed.

“Are you okay?” says Karen. She tries to take a step toward him, then trips over her pants—they’re still around one ankle. He catches her, his reflexes seemingly unhindered by the blow to the head.

Her hand hovers over his cheek.

He blinks several times, and his eyes focus on her face. “Combat lessons paid off,” he remarks, as if this is just another sparring day in the woods.

He straightens, releasing her gently, and walks toward the front door. He goes outside, pulling the door shut behind him. Leaving Karen alone, in the kitchen—still, sans pants. She pulls them on. When she looks up, she can just make out her own reflection in the window—she is utterly red-faced, hair still sweaty from work.

She can hear Frank talking to the kids outside but she doesn’t know what they’re saying. She honestly doesn’t want to know.

Karen goes into the bedroom, leans against the dresser and tries to calm her breathing.

About five minutes later, Frank comes inside. He has a welt along his cheek, and she can already see the bruise settling just beneath his eye. “Oh my God,” she says, hand hovering over his face. “I am so, so sorry. I—” She doesn’t know how to continue.

They look at one another.

Then Karen presses a hand to her mouth and dissolves into slightly hysterical laughter. “Did—did we just traumatize them for life?”

“If the apocalypse couldn’t do it, I doubt we could,” he says, perhaps a little too gravely. There is laughter lurking beneath the somber tone of his voice. She breaks into another horrified little laugh.

“Christ. How’s your face?” she says.

He smiles ruefully. “That was a pretty good knee strike. Few inches to the right and I’d be nursing a broken nose. Been a while since my face was all bruised up. You miss that look or something?”

“Never.” She gently touches the red mark. “I’m so sorry.”

“You said that already.”

“I mean it. I’ll get a cold washcloth or something.” She goes into the kitchen and returns with a sodden cloth. She presses it gently to the forming bruise, and his hand covers hers.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

“Doesn’t mean I like seeing it.”

He smiles at her. Again, there’s that flicker of emotion back in his eyes. Like when he spoke of her planting the roses. Speaking of—

“What’s with you and the roses?” she says. “Why does it matter if they’re in the kitchen or the yard?”

He squints at her around the washcloth. “It’s not important.”

“Seemed kind of important to you.”

He grumbles for a few moments, then he says, “They’re not… portable now.”

“Yeah that’s usually what happens when you plant something.”

He gives her a very dry look. “You can’t just pack them up now. They’re here—we’re here. And… I don’t know. You’re not thinking about leaving.”

She gapes at him. “Of course I’m not. Where would I go?”

He shrugs. “You spent a lot of time on that laptop of David’s, looking at what’s happening. I mean… I thought maybe…” His mouth tightens. “This place is small, I get that. It’s just us and David and the kids. It’s not like you can go chasing a story or work on what you love best. I know this kind of life isn’t something you’d have chosen.”

She understands. And she shakes her head. “Frank, this isn’t the life I’d have chosen. I couldn’t have chosen this—everything falling apart, that wasn’t anything I could change. But the choices I have made since then… you know, I’m happy with them.” She smooths her thumb lightly across the half-formed bruise. “I’m happy here, okay?”

He nods. “Good.”

“Good,” she echoes, and kisses him. She is careful about it, but she wants him to know that she isn’t going anywhere—the kiss is a reminder for him that this is exactly where she wants to be. His hands skim down her back, settle on her waist and she can feel his thumb caress her hip. It is the smallest of touches, and it makes her breath catch and her hips jerk toward him.

His eyes are half-lidded when he says, “If I take off your pants again, will I be risking the rest of my face?”

She lets out a surprised peal of laughter. “You cannot be serious.”

“The kids went back to the RV.”

“Did you lock the door?”

He hesitates. “I’ll check.”

* * *

The next day, Frank has a black eye and David asks him if got in a fight with a badger or something.

Karen can’t quite make eye contact with any of them.

* * *

One morning, David knocks on the door. It’s early—neither Karen nor Frank have really had breakfast yet.

The coffee has run out again, leaving them with hot tea brewed from foraged nettles. Frank hates it. Karen hates it slightly less, but both of them need something hot to drink in the morning. Some habits cannot be forgotten.

David is pale-faced and Frank takes one look at him and says, “Kids?”

“They’re fine,” says David. “Well, Zach’s fine. Leo is…” He makes a helpless sort of noise, then looks to Karen.

Karen is working on a new batch of bread, folding the edges of dough every half an hour. Her fingers are slick with water and flour. She looks up the moment she hears the worried edge in Frank’s voice.

“What is it?” she asks.

David hesitates, then seems to force himself to speak. “Leo—she started her period. First time, and… I mean, I know everything intellectually and I did make sure we grabbed some supplies before we left because I knew this had to be coming… but…” He scratches at the back of his neck. “I was kind of hoping someone with actual experience would be around to help her through it. She’s having cramps and she’s miserable and…” He sound helpless and angry and mournful all at once. “I’m sorry—I know you shouldn’t have to deal with this, but—”

 _Sarah was supposed to be here_ , goes unsaid.

“On it,” says Karen. She finishes folding the dough, then places the bowl on a shelf above the wood stove. “You have a hot water bottle or something?”

David thinks about it. “Maybe. I’ll check our first aid supplies.”

“If you do, heat it up. I’ll be over in ten.” Karen walks into the bedroom. They still have a small amount of luxuries left—a bit of powdered cocoa and canned milk. David is gone by the time she returns to the kitchen.

Frank is checking on the windowsill plants, and he watches as she heats the milk on the stove. “So that really helps, huh?” he asks. “Chocolate? Wasn’t sure if that was a myth or not.”

“I have no idea if there’s any scientific basis behind it,” replies Karen. “But it can’t hurt.”

He sighs, leans against the counter. His gaze softens, as if peering into a past she cannot see. “I don’t even know if—Lisa. She was about that age, but I don’t even know if she’d started or not. She would’ve gone to Maria, I think.” He shakes his head, and there’s a frustrated edge to his grief. “Wasn’t a lot of time to catch up, you know? That last day. Only had twenty four hours before everything went to shit. We didn’t really… there wasn’t time.”

She rests her hand on his arm, squeezes. “Mom got sick about the time I turned thirteen,” she says. “I kind of figured things out on my own. Although let me tell you, trying to figure out tampons based only on those stupid box instructions was a nightmare.”

He snorts. “I bet.”

For a few moments, they’re both quiet. The milk begins to quietly steam, and then Karen pulls it from the stove before it can scald. She begins mixing in the powdered chocolate.

“You know,” says Frank, frowning. “Haven’t… ah. Shit there is no way to say this without sounding like a perv… well. I mean, we’ve been—and you haven’t…”

She laughs. “You mean I haven’t said, ‘Not now, honey, it’s that time of the month?’”

He reddens, and it’s adorable. “Yeah, pretty much. I mean—I know it’s not the same for everyone. But if I even came near Maria during those first few days, I was likely to get my head bitten off.”

Karen finishes mixing in the chocolate. “My periods stopped after I got the implant.”

He sounds startled. “It can do that?”

“Yeah. Took about two months, and then I realized I was really late. Which scared the crap out of me for a few days until I remembered that was a potential side effect.”

He frowns. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to freak you out, too.” She pours the hot chocolate into a vacuum-sealed thermos and screws the lid shut. “And it turned out to be nothing, so it was fine.”

If anything, that makes his frown deepen. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“You do this sometimes,” he says, and seems to search for the right word. “This thing where you think you can’t tell me something because it might hurt me. You don’t lie to me, but I know you don’t tell me everything.”

“Frank—” She doesn’t know quite how to continue because he’s not wrong. She hasn’t told him some things, not because she doesn’t trust him but because some truths slice deep. And she would rather keep her silence than see him hurt.

“I went into this with eyes wide open,” he says. “Knew it wasn’t going to be easy. We’ve both got ghosts. There’s no way around that. But you don’t have to keep quiet if something’s bothering you. Hell, I want to know.”

She exhales, leans on the counter and looks down at the floor. “So if I’d told you my period was late, and I was pretty sure it was because of my new birth control, but I wasn’t _entirely_ sure because that birth control was jammed into my arm by a mob doctor in a post-apocalyptic clinic, you wouldn’t have been scared?”

“I’d probably have gone out back and done those damn breathing exercises Curt tried to teach me,” he admits. “But that’s the point. I’d deal with it. Karen, I know you’re plenty capable and you don’t need me. But if something’s on your mind, don’t feel like you have to keep quiet. I’m not gonna break.”

She picks up the thermos, aware of his eyes on her. He takes her coat from the hook beside the door and holds it out for her. It’s such a Frank thing to do.

She turns to face him, one hand settling on his chest. “I do need you,” she says quietly. She kisses him—it’s soft and good and all too brief. When she pulls back, his eyes are half-lidded. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

He nods, and she steps around him to the door.

Karen spends a few hours at the RV with Leo. She still has a few painkillers meant for her period, and she gives two to the poor girl with her hot chocolate. Leo seems glad for someone to talk to. Her questions come haltingly—she knows the basics, but there are a few details that books always skip over: how to wash blood out of cotton and exactly how tampons are supposed to work.

“Sorry,” says Leo, “I know—you’re not my mom, you shouldn’t have to…”

Karen takes Leo’s hand and squeezes gently. “Hey. My mom got sick when I was about your age.”

Leo looks up at her sharply. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Karen nods. “Cancer. So when my period came, my mom was in and out of the hospital, dealing with chemo. I didn’t want to bug her, so I ended up figuring this stuff out on my own a lot. My friends helped, but… some of them didn’t know much more than I did. For the record, you cannot get pregnant from just kissing a boy, no matter what anyone tells you.”

Leo looks vaguely offended. “I know. I did take sex ed.”

“Good. My tiny, middle-of-nowhere school really didn’t offer it.” Karen smiles briefly. “Point is, I know what it’s like to fumble your way through this, and you don’t have to. If you have any questions—about anything. Just ask, okay? I promise it’ll be just between us.”

Leo seems satisfied. “Okay. Thanks.” She takes a few moments, fidgeting with the hot chocolate thermos. “So… you and Frank…”

Oh Christ.

“Yeah?” Karen says—the word almost a croak. She should have known this was coming, particularly after the incident with Frank’s black eye.

Leo looks at her. “You’re together, right?”

Okay, at least that’s easy to answer. “We are.”

“But you’re not married.”

“No, we’re not.” Best to keep things simple.

Leo frowns. “Are you and him… you’re staying together, right?”

So this is what Leo is getting at. She thinks there’s still a chance that Karen and Frank could leave—or perhaps, that they’ll break up. “Yes, we’re staying together,” Karen says. “Neither of us is going anywhere.”

Of course Leo is worried about that. She has lost nearly everyone—and so Karen puts her arms around the girl and hugs her. Leo returns the hug, her small fingers digging into Karen’s sides. “I’m glad you both are here,” Leo whispers, and Karen hugs her a little harder.

“Yeah, me too, sweetie,” Karen murmurs.

* * *

Everything goes smoothly through June, and Karen almost falls into the trap of complacency.

No, that’s a lie. She does fall into it—headfirst.

She has been living in the cabin for months now, and it has become more of a home than any of her apartments in New York. She knows the trees, the deer trails, the creek, and even the familiar birds that like to nest above the cabin. She has her garden and Campion, and the kids have a flock of half-grown chicks. Frank keeps busy with cooking—he has been trying to find ways to cure the meat he hunts so it’ll be shelf-stable. David works on RV upkeep and uses his tech to keep track of outside communication. They all have things to do, and it is hard work—but they live in a beautiful place. The weather has turned pleasant, if a little muggy. Strange as it might seem, Karen is happy here, and at some point, she forgets that this is a forest. Untamed and beautiful and—dangerous.

She is walking with Leo and Zach. They came to the cabin for garden scraps to feed the chickens. Frank is at the RV with David—they’ve been playing chess once or twice a week.

There is a pile of old leaves near the garden; Karen has been using them to cover the seedlings that need some amount of shade. The dappled sunlight plays across the ground, and she doesn’t notice the creature until they’re on top of it.

She sees the eyes first. Vertical-slitted pupils.

Then the quivering tail.

The snake is brown and tan, its outlines seeming to bleed into the pile of dead leaves. It is tightly coiled, muscles bunching.

Time seems to thicken, every moment drawn out into ten. Karen moves with a speed she did not know she possessed—she seizes Zach by the shoulder and Leo by her hoodie and yanks them back as hard as she can.

The snake lunges. Karen kicks at it, but it is like trying to defend against a lightning strike. The snake recoils, then tries again.

Leo was carrying a shovel and it falls to the ground in the commotion. Karen seizes it and brings the blade down as hard as she can. She severs something—not all the way, but there is blood and the snake writhes weakly, its tail still quivering. No rattle, she’s relieved to see. It must be a threat display. It’s just an overly aggressive garden snake trying to protect itself. Still, Karen takes several steps back.

It’s dying, but dying animals can be dangerous.

“Come on,” she says, voice shaking. “Back to the cabin.” She leaves the shovel where it is, embedded in the snake’s back. She has one arm around each child and she hastens back to the cabin, shutting the door behind them. “You two okay?”

Zach is pale, but he nods. “That was awesome. You just—like, took that thing’s head off.”

Perhaps in a few weeks, Karen might be able to agree with him—right now, all she feels is hot adrenaline. “Let’s get something to drink, all right?” she says. “Maybe some tea?”

Leo takes hold of her sleeve. “A-aunt Karen?”

She looks at the girl. “Yes? What is it, hun?”

“Your leg’s bleeding,” she says.

A glance down and—she’s right. Blood trickles through her pants along her calf.

“Shit,” she says. She tries not to swear in front of the kids, she really does. This time, it just slips out. She tries to consider her options—she should probably clean the wound first thing, and—

“I’ll get my dad,” says Leo. The girl looks scared out of her mind and Karen wants to reassure her, reaches out, but Leo is already moving.

“Sweetie,” says Karen, concerned because the last thing she wants is for one of the kids to run into more trouble. Leo is halfway through the door. “Zach, go with her. Be careful.”

Zach nods and scurries after his sister. Karen flexes her foot—the muscle burns; she can feel the pain of the bite now. She hobbles to the rocking chair, then leans down to roll up her pants. Sure enough, there are two ragged puncture marks. The first aid kit is in the bedroom. She grimaces as she rises to her feet, half-skipping into the bedroom. She settles on the floor, pulling the toolbox open and rummaging around for disinfectant.

She is dabbing at the wound with an antiseptic wipe when the cabin door opens. “Karen?”

“In here,” she says. A heartbeat later, Frank strides into the bedroom. His chest rises and falls a little too quickly, as if he ran all the way from the RV. He kneels beside her, reaching for her leg. His thumb probes the swelling tissues near the bite. She draws in a sharp breath and his touch gentles.

“So did you beat David at chess yet?” she asks.

“I would’ve, but I heard you got into a fight with a garden snake,” he says. “Looks like he nailed you pretty good.”

“You should see the other guy.”

He carefully slips an arm beneath her. She feels a bit like an unwieldy sack of flour, being lifted onto the bed. She sits with her back to the headboard while he takes over cleaning the wound. She lets him—because she knows better. It would be like arguing with a brick wall. When he’s finished, he rummages through the first aid kit. “We still have some antibiotics left.”

She considers arguing; the medication is too valuable to waste. But going by the look on his face, he’ll probably just mash them up in her food if she doesn’t take them willingly.

She swallows a pill with a glass of water when David comes into the cabin. “I, uh, took a look at the snake. Definitely dead. The shovel will need to be cleaned before you use it again. You up to date on your tetanus?” he says.

She dredges through her memories. “Got it five years ago, so I think so? That’s the ten year one, right?”

“Right,” David says. His eyes dart toward Frank. “Hey, Frank? Mind helping me move it? I don’t really like snakes.”

Frank gives David a sharp glance, and it’s as much a ‘fuck off’ as if he uttered it aloud. He is halfway through bandaging the puncture wounds.

“Frank, please,” says David.

Frank frowns. He rears back a little, eyes searching David’s face.

If David is that scared of snakes, then Karen can spare Frank for a few minutes. “I’m fine,” she says. “I can tape this bandage—go help him.” She understands; she has a thing about spiders, so she’s not going to judge anyone else for having an animal phobia.

Frank looks at her, then nods. Together, he and David leave the cabin.

Karen remains on the bed. “Some afternoon,” she murmurs to herself. It isn’t how she imagined spending the day. She finishes wrapping clean cotton around the wound, then tapes it off. She can hear the two men conversing outside the cabin, but she can’t make out the words. Frank’s voice rises in anger, then David snaps at him, and both their voices go quiet.

Karen’s fingers still. They’re arguing out there.

If David blames her for nearly getting one of the kids injured, that might explain it. She should have been more careful about keeping an eye out for danger. If one of the kids had been hurt… she doesn’t want to think about it. She’s just glad it’s her instead of one of them.

The cabin door opens and shuts again, and then Frank strides into the bedroom. His face might as well be carved from granite. “Hey, you okay?” she says.

His eyes flash up to meet hers, then he looks away. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He goes to refill her cup of water, then checks the wound again.

“You and David fighting?” she asks. She isn’t used to having to pry for information, but then again, normally he offers it freely.

“David’s scared of snakes,” he says. As if that explains everything.

It doesn’t.

They don’t lie to one another. They never have—and his silence concerns her more than the bite.

“Frank, what’s—”

“Just rest,” he says, and grabs a few more pillows. “David’s going to finish burying it. Drink that water, please.”

“Are you sure the kids are okay?” Because that would explain the argument and Frank’s strange behavior.

“I’m sure.”

She studies Frank’s face, but she can only catch half-glimpses of it. He keeps himself in profile, moving about the bedroom. He rummages about in the first aid kit, muttering something about needing to restock it. Then he goes to refill her glass of water again, despite her saying she isn’t thirsty.

Finally, David walks into the cabin. He looks dirty and a bit pale behind his beard. “Buried,” he says. “Put it way out in the forest so hopefully no coyotes come too close to the house. We can hear them some nights—can you? What about—”

Karen isn’t even sure David pauses to take a breath. It’s all chatter and questions that he doesn’t give enough time for her to answer. Then he goes to make nettle tea, brings Frank a cup, and forgets his own on the windowsill.

Karen tries to catch Frank’s eye, but he isn’t having it.

The atmosphere is decidedly weird. There’s some kind of tension between Frank and David, but neither will speak of it. Frank won’t look at her and David won’t stop looking at her.

She lets it go on for about half an hour—and then she is done. David is monologuing about what the kids are writing essays about in their history studies, and Karen has had enough.

“All right,” she says flatly. “What’s going on?”

David says, “Sorry?”

“Talk to me, Frank,” says Karen. “What’s going on?”

Frank lets out a long breath. He and David exchange a glance. “I think we’re okay,” says David. He taps his watch. “Fifty minutes.”

“That right?” says Frank, and there’s an edge to his words.

“I’ll check on the kids,” says David. “Then I’ll come back. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“Fine.”

David looks relieved. He leaves his still-full cup of tea on the windowsill. Karen listens to the sound of the cabin door opening and closing, then she fixes Frank with a look. “I say this with love, but _what the hell, Frank?_ ”

Frank presses a hand to his eyes, rubbing for a few moments. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, eyes still not quite meeting hers.

“You feeling all right?” he says. “Sick at all?”

“I feel fine,” she says. “My leg hurts, but I’m pretty sure that’s normal after it’s been punctured.”

“Rate the pain.”

She thinks about it. “Four?”

“Take a deep breath for me.”

She does, if only because it’s faster than asking him why.

“Numbness anywhere?” he asks, picking up her hand and probing at her fingers.

“No, I—” And that’s when she gets it. She can feel the blood draining from her face.

The thing is, she doesn’t know snakes. She has never needed to know much about them.

“That wasn’t a normal garden snake,” she says. “Was it?”

Frank finally meets her gaze, and she understands why he wouldn’t look at her before. He was trying to hide his own fear. She can still see the echoes of it in his eyes, hear the frayed edge of it in his voice. “Copperhead. That’s why it blended in with the leaves so well, why it just came at you.”

Coldness washes through her. She looks down at the bandage with new understanding. Frank must see her expression change, because he’s right there, one hand on her arm, the other cupping her cheek. “You’re fine,” he says firmly, but as if he needs to convince himself. “Shh, shh. You’re okay. It was a dry bite. You’d be feeling it if it weren’t.”

“The kids,” she says. Because all she can think about is how close they were. They were right there beside her. It could have bitten one of them.

“Don’t go there,” says Frank. “They’re fine. Zach said you ‘yeeted them to safety’ whatever the fuck that means.”

No wonder David looked so spooked when he came into the cabin and asked for Frank’s help. “Neither of you said anything,” she says, unable to keep the note of disbelief from her voice.

Frank’s expression clouds over. “You think I didn’t want to? Moment I found out what the snake was, I was going to grab you and take you into town. David…” He grimaces. “He all but threw himself in my way. Said that the clinic probably wouldn’t even have the antivenom, and if you knew the truth, you’d get scared and your heart rate would pick up and if the snake had used venom… we could make it worse. If you started vomiting or having trouble breathing, then we’d take you into town, but until then…”

A sharp hiss of breath, and he grinds his fingers against his eyes, as if trying to block out a memory. “Copperhead venom isn’t normally fatal to adults. David thought we should just keep an eye on you for an hour or so. I let him talk me into it—but fuck. If we’d been wrong—” His voice roughens, and it sounds a lot like those first moments when he wakes from a nightmare.

“Hey,” she says, squeezing his hand. Any anger she might have felt at the deception is gone. “Frank. You made the right call.”

If it had been him, she would have done the same. 

“Didn’t even think about snakes here,” says Frank. “I should’ve—”

“Should’ve what? There was nothing you could have done to prevent this.” Karen shakes her head. “If this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I wasn’t paying close enough attention.” She tries not to remember those moments when she realized that the snake was almost underfoot. She is going to have a few nightmares herself, she knows. For a few moments, trails back through her memories, looking at them through with new insight. She remembers David’s slight shakiness when he came into the cabin for the first time. “So David isn’t actually snake-phobic.”

“Oh, he is,” says Frank. “Wouldn’t touch the damn thing. About pissed himself when I picked it up.”

She smiles a little. “I think between the three of us, you two probably had the worse time of it."

His attention is still a little too sharp. “You sure you’re feeling all right?”

“Yeah. I mean, my leg hurts but that’s it.” She looks down at her leg again. “I forget sometimes, you know? We made this place ours, but it doesn’t belong to us. And it’s never going to be entirely safe.”

“No place ever is,” he says. He kisses her. “You okay here? I’m gonna work outside a while. I’ll open a window—yell if you need anything. Don’t get up.”

She spends the rest of the afternoon in bed. The bite throbs gently in time with her heartbeat, but there are no other symptoms—and she tries not to think about how easily things might gone differently. It isn’t that she ever thought of the forest as benign but sometimes she forgets how dangerous the wilds can truly be. For the rest of the afternoon, she sits, propped up on a few pillows, while Campion flagrantly breaks the rule about no cats in bed and curls up beside her. Frank works outside, but she isn’t quite sure what he is doing. She ends up reading to pass the time, and when Frank comes back inside, he smells of damp earth and sweat.

The pain in her calf subsides, and by the next day, she only feels a slight soreness.

She walks outside, careful on her feet, to find that every fallen leaf has been raked away, leaving a forty-foot perimeter around the cabin.

And all of them are more careful about watching their footing.

* * *

They finish reading _Watership Down_ in July.

There hasn’t been as much time for reading with David and the kids around.

They’re in bed, Frank’s arm around her shoulders as she cradles the book against her knees. His fingers stroke absentmindedly along her arm as she reads. She finishes the last few lines, then carefully shuts the book. She sits up, turns to face him. She wants to hear what he thinks. 

Frank waits. As if he is expecting more. 

“It’s over,” says Karen. 

Frank blinks. Once twice, and then he says, “Wait, that’s it? That’s the end? The grim reaper rabbit shows up and Hazel dies?”

“Well, yeah.”

“The hero rabbit just _dies_.”

“It was of old age—and he went to rabbit heaven, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Kids,” says Frank, appalled. “Kids read this book, and it’s about rabbits getting gassed by humans, eaten by everything else, engaging in tactical warfare with one another over breeding stock, escaping captivity and a tyrannical leader, fighting a gruesome battle to keep their new home, and finally, finally when everything turns out okay, the main rabbit fucking _bites_ it?”

She is laughing; she can’t help herself. He looks so indignant. “Pretty much.”

“This is a fucked up kids book.”

Her smile softens. “The author wrote it for his daughters, you know. I did some research on him when I got older—I wrote a paper on him in college. He was a lieutenant in the second world war, and he saw a lot of this stuff first hand.” She runs her fingers over the worn cover. “His daughters used to beg him for stories during long drives, and this was what he came up with. I think he wanted his kids to know that the world can be a scary place, but there’s still good in it.”

When she looks up, Frank’s face is solemn. He picks up the book, looks at the yellowing pages and dented edges. “All right,” he says. “Fine. Leo can read it. She’d probably really like it.”

Karen grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so originally this note read “We’re coming up on the endgame, thanks for sticking with me” but then I realized that this fic is *literally* coming up on Endgame and then I cracked up for like a minute.
> 
> Big hugs to all of my commenters; I love you all.


	17. Chapter 17

Almost a year to the day that the world ended, the Avengers send out a call.

It’s the same day the kids ask to go down to the creek.

They’ve been making little boats of tree bark and leaves. It’s partly a carving project and partly a lesson in physics. David asks Karen and Frank to come with them; the day is warm and sunny, and it isn’t a hardship to go on a walk. Frank takes her hand as they stroll toward the creek, and she smiles to herself. She isn’t sure she’ll ever grow used to this—Frank Castle, holding her hand as they walk through a sunlit forest. It feels vaguely old-fashioned and it’s heartbreakingly sweet.

The kids take their boats down to the water, squabbling about which design will float better.

Frank watches them go with a half-smile. “They won’t be doing that for much longer,” he says.

“Don’t remind me,” says David, running a hand through his hair. “Teenagers. Don’t know if I’m prepared for that.”

“Hey, Uncle Frank!” says Zach. “My rudder fell off and Leo won’t fix it.”

“Of course not,” says Leo. “It’s supposed to be your project.”

Frank laughs quietly and walks toward them. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Karen sighs. She glances toward David; as soon as Frank’s back is turned, the other man’s face turns grave.

“What is it?” she asks quietly.

David looks at her—and there’s something unsettling in his face. It looks like guilt. “I just—picked up a message on the satellites today.”

“A message?”

“Showed up on a basic frequency usually reserved for distress calls,” he says. “But it wasn’t from one of the cities. It came from New York from… Avengers headquarters. It went out all over the world.”

Karen’s heartbeat quickens. “Really? What did it say?”

“It was a summons, I guess you could call it. They’re asking for…”

“For what?”

He doesn’t answer—instead, his eyes go to Frank.

Ice slides up through Karen’s veins. “For vigilantes,” she says, so David doesn’t have to.

David nods. “Anyone who’s fought in the kind of weird shit that vigilantes find themselves in. Frank’s shit is less weird than others, but he’d qualify, I think.”

Karen thinks of all the people who might answer that call, if they survived—Luke Cage, Jessica Jones, the hipster with the glowing hand—hell, even Matt. She looks to Frank—Frank, who is helping fix Leo’s boat, his forehead drawn in concentration. He hands it back to the girl, who returns to the creek, laughing at something he says. He watches her go, smiling fondly.

He looks so different from the first time they met—and it’s not just his longer hair or beard. His face is softer; there are a few well-worn crinkles at the edges of his eyes; when he walks, it is without predatory intent. He spends his days chopping wood, building things, sewing their clothes back together because his stitches are neater than hers, tossing acorns for their cat to chase, helping raise David’s kids. He is still dangerous—of that, there’s never any doubt. But there is no war here. This man is Frank Castle in peace time and she has had a year to get to know him.

She’s going to lose him.

Because he will go. There’s no doubt in her mind.

He looks up at that moment. He’s smiling—but the moment their eyes lock, his expression sharpens into concern. Karen isn’t sure what her face looks like, but she glances away, not wanting him to see.

“Let me read the message,” she says quietly to David.

It isn’t that she doesn’t believe him—but she is too much a journalist not to double-check her sources.

David doesn’t seem surprised. “It’s still open on my laptop.”

Karen doesn’t look back toward the creek; she can’t allow herself that glimpse. She turns and strides in the direction of the RV. She doesn’t make any attempt to run or jog, but her gait is a little uneven. She walks through this forest that has become home over the course of a year. The leaves are browning again. It’ll be winter in a few months; they have prepared for it. Canned blackberries and salted meats and acorns soaking in buckets, so they can be safely ground into flour.

It can’t have been for nothing. She won’t let it have been for nothing.

The RV is unlocked and Karen walks up the narrow steps. It always smells a little of industry—of plastic and metal. It’s a stark contrast to her cabin. The laptop is at the table, and she settles into the seat. Breathes once, twice. Opens the laptop.

It blinks to life. A password prompt appears.

Karen would know what it was even if David hadn’t told her.

It’s the kids’ birthdays, mashed together. She types in the string of numbers, then hits ‘enter.’

The message looks like something out of an old movie. It’s a series of long rectangles and circles, the words translated beneath. Morse code.

Of course. The Avengers would need something that wouldn’t be wholly obvious to non-humans.

She reads the words slowly, allowing each one to sink into her. And with every letter, she feels a bit of hope die away.

That is how Frank finds her: sitting at the RV’s kitchen table, gazing at the computer. He angles himself inside; both of them are a little too tall to fit comfortably inside. “Hey,” he says.

She looks at him and tries to imagine how he’ll change. He’ll have to shave the beard and cut his hair, too. He never went into battle with longer hair, probably because an enemy might grab it.

His face is solemn. “David told me,” says Frank. “You came here to check his work?”

She nods. “Morse code was never my specialty, but yeah. I checked.”

He nods, as if her double-checking morse code is perfectly normal. Then he holds out his hand to her.

She hesitates, torn for a few moments between the laptop and Frank—but then she closes the computer. Her fingers slide in between his, and then he is leading her outside. They leave the trailer together, Frank’s hand curved around hers. She has to force her arm to relax; she fears she will hold on too tightly if she gives herself the chance. 

A year, she tells herself, as they walk through the woods. They’ve had a year together. It’s more than she ever expected. A year longer than most people have lived—and in far better circumstances, too. She knows she should be grateful, but all she can feel is the sharp pain of a loss she knows will be coming. If it were anyone else, she might have tried to armor herself against it; she might have pulled away, tried to harden her emotions, to steel herself. But losing Frank—she can’t even contemplate it. 

The thought of losing him feels like physical pain. They have come to rely on one another in ways she could never have imagined a year ago. They’ve built this new life on the foundation that they are in this together, and suddenly Karen thinks of Zach holding his boat with its rudder fallen off—able to stay afloat, but unable to steer.

No. No—this is enough self pity, she thinks. She is not going to fall into this trap. 

She isn’t going to lose him. 

But he’s not going to like it. 

They return to the cabin, but they don’t go inside. Instead, Karen lingers in the yard, just looking at the small home they’ve made for themselves. At the yard, with its woodpile and porch, at the small white rosebush.

It was never perfect but it was theirs.

And Christ, she’s already thinking in the past tense.

Frank clears his throat. “You think I’m going, don’t you?”

She wraps her arms around herself. “Well, aren’t you? They’re asking for any and all vigilantes who can fight.”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s a biting humor behind his words. “And I’m sure I’m _exactly_ the kind of person they’re hoping to recruit. A mass murderer with a bullet hole through his skull who is still technically wanted by the feds.”

“You’re not,” she starts to say, and he holds up a hand to quiet her.

“Point is,” he replies, “I wouldn’t get a warm welcome. Particularly from those who’ve lived in New York. Doubt Captain America would be all that thrilled to see the Punisher strolling into Avengers HQ.”

“I don’t think any of that matters anymore,” she says. “The way everything has gone, they can’t afford to be picky about who joins up.” This is not how she imagined him taking this news, not at all. “And I thought—”

“What,” he says. “That I’d run off to fight another war, given the first chance?”

She flinches—because it’s true.

He sighs. She can’t quite decipher the look on his face—it’s something between gentle irritation and earnestness.

“Listen,” he says. “If I’d known what was coming, I would’ve fought. If I’d been in the right part of New York when this shit first went down, or Scotland or hell, if I knew what was coming to Wakanda, I’d have called in every favor I was owed to get there. I’d have done whatever I had to, if I could’ve kept this from happening.”

“I know you would have,” she says.

“But the point is,” he continues, “it happened. Nothing’s going to change that. It _happened_ and all that’s left is how we deal with it. I don’t care if a bunch of assholes in tight pants think they can avenge the dead. I’ve been there and fucking done that. And I don’t regret it, not for a moment. Those men who killed my family deserved to die.” He takes hold of her shoulders, squeezes lightly. “But my family was gone. I didn’t have anything else left.” He takes a breath. “You, you’re alive. David and the kids, they’re all here. So I’m not about to throw my life away, you got that?”

His words should release the tension coiled tightly within her, but they don’t. 

He catches her gaze and holds it. The way he does when he wants her to understand. “I’m not fighting their war,” he says. “I’m done. I’m out.” 

“What if the war’s coming here?”

Karen looks up sharply to see David a few strides away. The other man’s expression is sober and he approaches the cabin with a heavy, resigned step. “The kids are back at the RV. I thought we should talk about this.” He gestures vaguely. “All three of us.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” says Frank. “You don’t have to worry about me going.” 

David scrubs his hands through his unkempt hair. “Actually, I’m a little more worried about you not going."

Frank’s whole face changes; his gaze sharpens and his mouth flattens out. “What?” 

David’s attention is on Karen. He has the look of a man who is exhausted beyond the point of worry. “Did you tell him everything the message said?”

“Not yet.” She presses her fingertips to her forehead. She has a headache from staring at the laptop screen.

“What?” says Frank. His head tilts back a little as he says it, as if bracing himself. He glances at Karen, but she cannot answer.

David seems to search for the right words. “The Avengers have been building… something. Don’t know, because they were ridiculously vague about it. Something designed by Pym Technologies. They’re going to try and activate it soon. But they’re worried about reprisals, so they’re making one last ditch attempt to bolster their numbers. They think Thanos might send people to stop them—or return himself.”

For the briefest moment, Karen hates David. She knows what he’s doing; he is laying out the pieces one by one, so Frank will fight. Because David said it when he first arrived: he will do anything to keep his kids safe. Even if it means sending his friend into another war.

Frank curses beneath his breath. “They can’t just leave well enough alone, can they? Goddamn it. We’re just trying to survive here, and they’re—” He cuts off abruptly, turning away from Karen. He paces back and forth, anger in every line of his back. “We barely survived the last attack and they’re—what? Trying to kill the person responsible? Pieces of fucking shit—”

Karen looks at David, and he flinches.

_Good._

“I’m sorry,” David says, so quietly. “Fuck. I’m sorry. But if this is true…”

“If it’s true, then we’re all fucked,” says Frank. “If Thanos comes back—” His gaze swings toward the direction of the RV—and she knows he is thinking of the kids, too. Karen steps forward, taking his hand. His fingers are cold.

“What about your friend in Homeland?” she asks. “Madani? Do you think she’d have any more details?”

“She might,” says David, frowning. “You think it’s worth getting in touch?”

“You mean, should we check your information before driving nine hundred miles to Avengers headquarters?” says Karen sharply. “Yes.”

David winces. He looks as though he knows what she’s thinking, and the briefest flicker of shame crosses his face. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

Frank says, “You got a way?”

David shakes his head. “All the equipment I have here is for receiving signals, not sending them. Trust me, anything with an outgoing message can be tracked—which is why I didn’t bring a sat phone. But there’s an old NSA outpost north of Knoxville. It’s probably abandoned, but I’ll bet you anything the equipment is still there. I could give you the codes.”

“That’s about a hundred miles away, right?” asks Karen. “Do we have the gas for it?”

“I checked the supplies,” says David. “You’ve got enough for fifty miles. More if the truck isn’t carrying anything too heavy. Finding gas might be more difficult—a year means people have had a lot of time to scavenge.”

“We,” says Frank, seeming to zero in on that single word.

Karen smiles thinly. “You don’t think you’re going alone, do you?”

Because this is what the end of the world has taught Karen—it’s about deciding what you can and cannot lose. She can lose the cabin, her garden, the forest, her safety. 

She cannot, will not, lose him. 

Frank’s jaw clenches. Perhaps that would be intimidating to anyone else, Karen merely raises her eyebrows. She knows the argument that’s coming—and she’s just as strong willed as he is.

David glances between them. He looks as if he’s regarding two colliding hurricanes. “I’m going to check on the kids,” he says, and makes a hasty retreat. Karen watches him go. She can’t truly blame him for wanting to keep his kids alive—no matter the cost. She just hates that it’s Frank who will have to bear the brunt of that burden. Just like he always has. At least this time, she won’t let him do it alone.

David is barely out of hearing range before Frank says, “No.” 

Karen doesn’t argue with him. She goes into the cabin, instead. He follows at her heels, and she can feel the storm raging behind her.

“Do you want tea?” she asks, picking up the kettle. They have some dried nettle.

He doesn’t answer, but she fills the kettle anyways. She turns to face him when she’s finished.

“Karen—” He paces back and forth, as if he cannot remain still. “If this is—if whoever did this is coming back—”

He waits for her to argue, but she doesn’t. If she offers an argument, it’ll be something for him to fight against. She won’t give him that.

“I can’t protect you and fight a war,” he says. “I can’t."

She raises an eyebrow. Months of lessons have rendered her almost as good a shot as he is, and while she may not be a natural at hand-to-hand, she can defend herself. She can strip and reassemble most of the guns in the shed. And she already knows how to take a life.

“I don’t expect you to,” she says. “We’ll protect one another.” 

He looks at her with pain in his eyes, and she wishes she could take it away... but not this time. 

“We’ve had a good year,” she says. “And I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But you can’t—you can’t expect me to just give up everything I am, everything I believe in. This story can’t go half-told.” She touches him—just a brush of her fingers around the back of his neck. He leans into her, head bowing. “And if something happens to one of us, the other can get them to safety. It’s safer not to go alone.” She kisses the scar along his temple. “I love you. And I’m going with you.”

He draws in a breath. It is the smallest of inhales, the kind uttered when a person knows they’ve been dealt a fatal blow.

“We started this together,” she whispers. “We’re not ending it apart.”

* * *

There are preparations to be made. Bags are packed; provisions to be considered; guns are checked and rechecked. Ammo sorted. The garden still has a few harvests left in it—the kids and David will have to take care of that. Campion seems unsettled by all of the activity; he leaps into the rafters and watches them with wary feline attention. Karen coaxes him down with some dried meat, then picks him up and cuddles him close. That rusty engine purr is a comfort, even now.

She is going to miss all of this. Their cabin, their cat, their garden, all of it—theirs.

Karen counts out at least a month’s supplies, carefully bagging them up. Frank works in the shed; when he emerges, it is with their small armory. The guns are cleaned and the magazines are full.

Karen writes out a few instructions for David and the kids—when to harvest the garden, how to keep the sourdough starter alive, and a reminder to water the roses.

As night is falling, Frank goes through their small personal belongings. Only a few items will be going with them—and Karen glimpses the book in his hand. It’s open in his palm, as if he thumbed absentmindedly through the pages.

It’s _Watership Down_.

“What part are you at?” she asks, fingers sliding across his shoulder.

He doesn’t look up. “ _Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed_.”

She remembers the last time she read that passage—the first night in this cabin.

Perhaps it’s fitting that he should be reading it the during the last.

No, no. This might not be their last night in the cabin. They could come back—depending on what Madani says.

She takes the book from his hands, slides it onto the table, then kisses him. It isn’t rushed, isn’t leading to anything. She pulls back, studies the face she has grown to love more than anything else in the world. She cards her fingers through his hair and feels the knotted scar where the bullet punctured his skull.

“You ever wish your lawyers picked easier criminals to defend?” he asks. “Maybe some petty thief instead of an Irish hitman?” 

It has been months since she thought of Grotto and that night at the hospital. It seems an eternity ago. 

“Not for a second,” she replies. 

“You might have had an easier time of it.” 

“Everything that’s happened—I know I should regret some of it,” she says. “But I look at where we ended up and I just... can’t. I can’t regret the path that led me here.” She leans her forehead against his. “I love you. And I wouldn’t trade that for the world—apocalypse or not.” 

He doesn’t answer; he kisses her a second time, fingers tight, as if afraid to let go. 

They’ll leave in the morning.

* * *

Frank wakes abruptly.

It isn’t nightmares that drag him awake—it’s the scent of burning ozone, the sharp metal tang of a lightning strike. He sits up, glances at the window. He expects to see storm clouds, but the sky is utterly clear. Dawn is just creeping through the trees, wan sunlight cast along the wooden floor.

It must have been a nightmare. Some lingering memory at the back of his mind.

“Frank?” Karen stirs beside him, blinking sleepily. Her hair is tangled, and her eyes unfocused.

Campion stalks into the bedroom and looks at his humans. He meows plaintively. Karen begins to sit up, but Frank lays a hand on her shoulder. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” It’s early enough that she might still catch another hour of sleep.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. The cat twines around his ankle, meowing a second time. “Yeah, yeah,” Frank mutters. “I know.” He goes to let the cat out, and Campion darts through the half-open door. Frank shakes his head, half-exasperated and half-fond. He returns to bed; his space beneath the covers is still warm, and Karen turns into him with a contented sigh.

“Hi,” she murmurs. She kisses him, and it’s a slow and soft. Like those first rays of sunshine warming the cabin. He rests his hand between her shoulder blades, feels the stretch of muscle and tendons as she twines herself around him. She is dressed in little more than a loose shirt and panties, and he can feel the damp heat between her legs when she moves closer.

“I thought you were going back to sleep,” he says, breaking the kiss for a moment.

She smiles. “Found something more fun.”

“That so,” he says, and his thumb edges beneath the hem of her shirt. She nips at his lower lip and he groans, kissing her harder. His thigh angles between her legs and a whimper rises in her throat at the pressure. He teases her a little, enjoying the way her eyes fall half shut with pleasure. If this is going to be their last morning in this bed, he plans to make the most of it. He moves down her body, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her panties and pulling them down. She helps as best she can, angling her legs so that the fabric slides away. He takes hold of her thighs, kissing each in turn.

“Frank,” she says, and he loves the way she says his name—like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.

He spreads her thighs, angling them over his shoulders. She’s open to him like this, flushed and wanting and so damned trusting. He won’t ever take that for granted. He dips his head, kisses the place just above her clit. She flinches beneath him, as if the touch is almost too much, but then she settles, her hips angling upward, seeking more sensation. They’ve had enough time to get to know one another; he knows what she likes, and it’s a pleasure to give it to her. He drags the flat of his tongue across her and she gulps at the air, as if it’s become too thin to breathe. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and his thumb settles just above her clit, not quite touching—just a bit of pressure—before he moves downward. She tastes like amber and warmth and something that is all Karen. He is embarrassingly hard, leaking a little into the sheets, but he tries to focus on her.

He circles her entrance with his thumb, then eases one finger into her. She keeps up a quiet chant of pleas and curses punctuated by his name. Smiling a little, he places his whole mouth around her clit and sucks. She jerks hard, muscles spasming in her thighs. She’s close; he hear it in her voice. “Wait—Frank,” she gasps, and he pulls back. “Want—want you.” Even with her sentences fraying, he understands.

He settles himself above her, but she places one hand on his shoulder and says, “Not this time.” Then she uses one of his own moves against him—a roll designed to get an attacker onto their back. He goes with a small grunt, and she swings one leg up and over him. She grins down at him, and she is gorgeous in the morning light—the planes and lines of her body, the mussed tangle of her hair, her kiss-reddened lips parting in a gasp as she eases down onto him.

He sits up, one arm around her waist. “Fuck.” 

“That is the idea,” she says, breathless, as she begins to rock back and forth. She keeps her hands on his shoulders, steadying herself as she rides him. Being inside her always leaves him wordless and a little dazed. He watches her with an avid hunger. She leans over him, moaning softly; he is all but lost to the sensation of her, the pleasure spiraling tighter. He isn’t going to last long but luckily, neither does she. Her rhythm falters, and she moves faster against him, seeking her own pleasure.

He kisses his way along her throat and her nails dig into his shoulders. He has never loved her more than in this moment—his brave, gorgeous Karen, who loves with the kind of ferocity that must have driven heroes of old to descend into underworlds or fight three-headed monsters. “Love you,” he rasps, one hand cupping her cheek. It’s all he can say, all he can think to say. “So much.” 

Her movements begin to slow; her eyes are squeezed shut, and she gasps his name. He bucks up into her, feels the clench and release of her orgasm. She gasps his name, nails scoring into his shoulders as she loses her balance. His arm tightens on her waist, and all he can see is the golden shine of her hair, the reddened swell of her lower lip, the deep hues of her eyes. Every breath tastes like her. “Frank,” she says again, and fuck, that’s what sets him off. He buries himself in her with a few last jerky thrusts, and then they’re both panting and sated, with her still atop him. His hand moves in lazy circles along her back, and she tucks her chin against his shoulder.

For a few minutes, they remain that way—just listening to one another breathe. Finally, she lifts her head and eases off of him, rolling onto her side.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Good morning,” she agrees. She kisses him, then says, “You ready to go?”

The truth of the matter is he doesn’t want to go. He wants wrap himself up in her, to stay in this forest, in their cabin with their cat and their warm bed—but he can’t. Not while there’s a chance that more people could die.

“We’ll leave in an hour or so,” he says. “Gives us enough time to shower and say our goodbyes.”

“Okay.”

* * *

They bring Campion to the RV. The cat looks confused by the change in venue, but he begins sniffing around the bed and table, as if looking for a place to use as a scratching post. Frank gives the cat one last rub behind the ears. Despite not being a cat person, Campion has grown on him.

Frank squats down in front of Zach. “Hey, kid. I’m leaving you in charge of the cat. Can you look after him for us?”

Zach seems surprised by the request. “What—why? I mean, Leo—”

“I’m trusting you with this, okay?” says Frank. And Zach straightens, determination sharpening his features, and Frank can see the kind of man he’ll be in a few years.

“I’ll do it,” he says, and Frank can tell the kid means it. “I’ll take care of him until you guys get back.”

Karen is saying goodbye to Leo, then she comes over to talk to Zach. Frank moves a few steps closer to Leo, intending to ask her to look after Karen’s roses, but then Leo’s arms are tight around his neck and he can’t speak. His throat aches.

“Be careful,” she whispers into his ear, and the tremor in her voice breaks his fucking heart.

“I will,” he says. “Promise.”

Once their goodbyes have been said, the kids return inside the RV. David remains outside; he’ll see them off.

Together, the three of them walk back toward the cabin. Karen rubs at her damp eyes and Frank’s hand settles around her waist. She leans into him for a few steps, and he needs the support, too.

There is a selfish part of him that is glad she’ll be coming. And another part of him that screams she should be here, where it’s still relatively safe.

It’s her choice, though. She has always accepted him for what he is, and he cannot do any less. 

They walk around the cabin one last time. Karen grabs their packs while Frank locks up. He leaves the keys with David, tells him to use the place as he will. Karen walks around the cabin, fingertips trailing across the wood. She is saying goodbye, Frank knows.

He’ll bring her back. That, he vows to himself.

Once they’re all packed up, Frank hands a backpack to David and turns in the direction of the road. David and Karen converse quietly, her asking him what sorts of questions they should ask Madani; him telling her about the NSA security they’ll need to get past.

“You’ve got all the passwords?” says David, for the third time.

Karen pats her notebook. “We’ve got them. And the safe routes to DC and New York.”

The truth of the matter is, they don’t know if they’re coming back. It depends on what Madani says—if she needs him, Frank will go. And Karen will be right beside him, taking notes.

Frank half-listens to them talk as they trek toward the road. His attention is on the forest; the fallen clumps of leaves, the places where he’s set traps, and the distant sound of birdsong. The forest is beautiful in autumn; it smells crisp and slightly damp and Frank inhales deeply.

That is when that smell hits Frank again.

Burning ozone.

Sour metal.

Lightning.

Frank’s footsteps falter. He stands in place for a few heartbeats, a frown creasing his forehead.

“Frank?” asks Karen. “What is it?”

Frank shakes his head, then holds up a hand for quiet.

Because it is quiet—all of the birds have gone silent.

The woods are too still, too silent, and that _smell._ Unease curls at the base of Frank’s stomach, tightening up through his ribcage.

“Something’s wrong,” he says.

David walks up to him, leaves crunching beneath his boots. “Mind being a little more specific—”

The world shakes _hard_.

A ripples goes through the ground. Frank falls to one knee and Karen goes down on her ass with a surprised yelp. Frank hears David swearing a few feet away.

A tree cracks nearby. Frank seizes Karen’s arm, pulls her close. His arms hover above them both in case a branch falls. The world continues to roil beneath them, and Frank counts the seconds—one, two, three—

The quake lasts around nine seconds, then everything goes still again.

Leaves settle back into place. There’s another snap of breaking wood as an old tree falls into another. Frank doesn’t move; he remains in his crouch, one arm above his own head and the other keeping Karen close. They’re both okay. And judging by the sound of David’s swearing, he’s fine, too.

Her breathing comes in ragged gasps. “An earthquake?” She pulls away, and her lips are pale. “Are we on any fault lines here?”

David rises to his feet, but he looks shaky. “There’s a few in Kentucky, but I don’t know that…”

A chill falls across the bare skin of Frank’s forearms. He rolled his sleeves up earlier that morning, and now that exposed skin prickles with goosebumps.

David looks up first and his voice dies away. He blinks several times, as if hoping the sight will change if he can just bring it into focus.

Karen glances up. Her face goes completely bloodless.

Frank looks up, too.

The sky is wrong.

It has the sickly green hue of a bruise, and he can see stars glimmering at the edges of the horizon. The sun is gone—blocked out by a looming, hulking shape. Cold falls across the forest, the warmth of the sunlight all but vanished.

The three of them stand beneath a sunless green and black sky.

David sputters. “Is there an eclipse I didn’t know about?”

“That’s—that’s not natural,” says Karen. “Not with—”

The ground shakes a second time. More oak leaves fall, scattering along the forest floor.

Karen is right. This isn’t natural.

All of Frank’s instincts are screaming at him—and he has learned to listen to them. It’s how he’s stayed alive when so many other men have perished. He looks up a second time, staring hard.

There are lights moving through the atmosphere. He can see them now, in the darkening of this half-twilight. Red and golden lights—like fireflies. Something flashes bright, then goes still. Illumination dances in twining swirls, then flares a second time.

Frank has spent far too much time on battlefields not to recognize this for what it is—a dogfight. He can’t make out the aircraft, but he recognizes the spread of the lights, the way they move.

It’s a goddamned battle in the sky—and he cannot do a thing about it. He might as well be an ant amidst warring giants.

“We need to get to cover, now,” he says tightly.

David is shaking. “The—the kids—”

“We’ll get them. We can take them to the cabin—the foundations are sturdier.” Now that Frank can see the battle, it’s all he sees. He recognizes a few of the patterns: a sweep of movement there, a bend of light, then a scattering of explosions. Someone up there trained in the air force, he’d bet his life on it.

Karen’s fingers are tight on his arm. “You think…?” she whispers. She doesn’t have to elaborate.

He gives her one curt nod.

There are no planes up there. No conventional aircraft could dart in and out of the atmosphere like that.

This isn’t a fight between nations—or even strictly between humans.

He can’t think of any way that humanity could block out the sun.

David is already running, tearing off through the forest with little care for undergrowth or rocks. Frank follows at a more careful pace, back slightly bent, keeping lower to the ground. He gestures for Karen to stay behind him, and she follows a short distance away.

His body has fallen into that familiar rhythm—run, pause, glance around, then run farther. He keeps an eye out for any of the traps he’s set throughout the woods, for any enemy artillery that might fall to earth, and for any spooked animals. A deer crashes through the forest and bounds away, and he sees a few squirrels darting about the branches as if unsure where to hide. A flock of birds screams across the sky—and then several of them fall out of it.

Karen curses as the ground shakes again; it feels like a distant rumble, like something struck the ground. Lighting flashes across the dark sky—so bright it sears through Frank’s vision. He has to blink several times to see properly again. Karen is a few feet away, holding onto a tree, gazing upward. “Stay with me, okay?” he says, voice rough. “Stay close.”

It’s probably useless; if any of those weapons do crash to earth, it is not as if he could protect her from that. But he still doesn’t want to lose her in this darkness. Almost all the light has drained from the sky, leaving behind a half-twilight.

The stars are too bright—pinpoints of light against that strange green sky.

“They’re up there, aren’t they?” she says, reaching for him. Her fingers are tight on his arm.

He grunts. No point in specifying who they are. Only one group of people has the power to wage a war above the atmosphere. “Probably.”

His jaw clenches. He is utterly powerless down here. He cannot affect what is going on up there, cannot fight, cannot even reach the battle—so he has to focus on the smaller things. Get Karen, the kids, and David to the cabin. Beneath it, maybe. There’s a crawlspace, and if there’s another earthquake, that might be the safest place.

They move together through the sickly green twilight, beneath a lighting-struck sky, and Frank tries not to look up too often. It’s a danger he can’t afford, not when the footing is treacherous and he is trying to catch up to David.

Several creatures bound across Frank’s path and it takes him a moment to see the outlines. _Rabbits_. Frank’s steps falter; he doesn’t want to accidentally injury one of them. Their shadowy forms flicker into the bushes and do not reappear. Running for safety, probably for a nearby warren.

Smart of them. 

Frank runs on.

He runs until the breath is sawing in and out of him in burning gasps, until all he can taste is sour metal and lightning.

Finally, he catches sight of David. The other man is panting, hands on his knees. The RV is just on the horizon and the sight of it makes Frank’s heart beat a little slower. They’re so close to the kids. Everything is going to be all right. All they have to do is—

“Something’s wrong,” says David, and there’s an odd wobble in his voice. “I feel—something’s…”

“David?” asks Karen. 

His voice trails off, and then his eyes widen with panic. He stumbles, falling forward, and his knees hit the ground. Frank surges forward, thinking that something must have struck his friend, that a stray bullet or—

But when David’s palm slams into the earth, his fingers break apart.

David isn’t just falling. He is collapsing in on himself, edges dissolving and then there’s—

Ash.

Ash scattered amidst the fallen oak leaves.

For a moment, all Frank can hear is his own heartbeat. It drowns out the sounds of the battle, of the panicked wildlife, even Karen crying out beside him.

David is gone—and there’s just ash—

“Oh, God,” Karen breathes. “David? David!”

She rushes toward the place where David was standing, but Frank catches her around the waist. He doesn’t want her touching the ash. Even if this isn’t contagious, even if it isn’t biological, he won’t risk it. She is shaking hard, and he pulls her tightly against him. 

“No,” he says. He is trying to bite back his own fear and doing a bad job of it. “Karen, no.”

This cannot be happening, not again. Not after everything they’ve gone through to survive.

But it is.

The world is ending a second time and there’s nothing he can do.

Karen trembles so hard that it almost feels like another earthquake. “Leo,” she says wildly. “Zach.”

“We’ll get them,” Frank vows. “We’ll get the kids. We’ll get them to the cabin."

The kids will be okay. The kids have to be okay. Frank can’t let himself believe anything else.

Another ripples thrums through the ground beneath their feet. Karen’s nails dig into his shirt as she holds onto him and he’s gripping her just as hard.

“It’s happening again,” she says. “Something—something must have gone wrong. The Avengers fucked up their plan or Thanos came back or—Jesus Christ. We lost, humanity lost and—”

“No,” he says hotly. “We haven’t lost.” He can’t think that way; if he starts down that path, there’s no coming back from it. He has to believe that they can still grab the kids and go somewhere, outrun this, or fight back.

He feels her stiffen against him. At first he thinks it is simple fear, but then she makes this sound. It’s a sound he has never heard her make: a horrified little inhalation. He pulls back enough to see her face and her expression is cracked open with panic.

It feels as though his heart freezes in his chest. 

It’s a nightmare. It has to be one of his nightmares because her edges have gone soft as dry-rotted wood.

She can’t—this can’t be—it’s not real. This can’t be fucking real.

It’s not real.

It’s not—

“I love you.” She says the words in a panicked rush. “I love you. Frank, I—”

He holds her as if he can keep her together. His hand curls around her neck, fingers in her hair, but this isn’t the kind of attack he can shield her from; she is not being killed, she is being unmade.

He recalls that day at the river near Susquehanna. He remembers cold water against his shins and the sight of Karen’s bare back. She looked like carved marble—all pale lines and slender strength. Her fingers were knotted in her hair, holding it out of the way so he could wash her back, and he remembers being staggered by implicit acceptance in that gesture. She trusted him to keep her safe.

He remembers the promise he made. He utters it now.

“I got you,” he whispers. “Karen, I’m right here, I’m—”

And then his arms are empty.

Without her weight as a counterbalance, he crashes to the ground. One dirty palm rakes across a fallen branch, but he doesn’t feel the pain of it. He can’t feel anything. Nothing at all. There is only ringing silence—and ash. So much of it. Across his palms, in the beds of his fingernails, even in his beard.

Gone. She’s gone.

There is no body to grieve over. No blood, no broken pieces left behind. Perhaps that should be a mercy—but it isn’t.

No.

None of this is merciful.

He looks up at the bruise-green sky. As if it might hold answers.

The lights have all gone out. There is no more dogfight, no flashes of illumination, nothing at all.

The victor has been decided—let them have this broken world. Frank wants no part of it.

David’s gone—Karen’s gone. And he’s willing to bet the kids are gone, too. Because this is how it always ends.

Fury kindles behind his breastbone.

“Come on,” he snarls to the open air. A challenge and a plea. “Just fucking end it.”

And for once in his life, he gets his wish. He can feel the world beginning to ebb away, like blood from an arterial wound—a throb and pulse, and then everything falters. A glance downward, and he sees himself begin to crumble. It doesn’t hurt. It’s numbness creeping through his nerves, a sickly cold up through the belly.

Everyone is wrong about how the world ends.

The world does not end with a bang or a whimper. Not with fire or ice.

It ends with, “Karen—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay.
> 
> Look up at the chapter count. This story isn’t over. **_It’s not over_** _._ So don’t yell at me quite yet, okay? I promise, this isn’t how it ends. 
> 
> Trust me a little longer, friends.


	18. Chapter 18

When Frank Castle opens his eyes, all he sees is water.

It stretches to the horizon—an endless expanse of sea. The colors are the bright beauty of a sunrise—brilliant hues of orange and crimson.

The water laps at his boots. He should slide into the depths. He’s on his knees, knuckles brushing the surface. Small ripples eddy out from his feet when he rises. The world is very quiet and still.

If this is the afterlife—it is not what he expected.

He takes a step, half-expecting to fall into the water. It remains strangely solid beneath him. He glances around, turning in a circle—then he sees her.

There is a little girl about thirty feet away.

Her back is to him and in the unearthly light, he cannot make out her features. His heart thumps unsteadily. “Lisa?” he whispers.

The girl turns. Her features are not those of his daughter. She has green skin and red hair. She is perhaps a few years younger than Lisa would have been, and she wears a simple brown dress. “No,” she says.

“Sorry. I thought—” He shakes his head. He moves closer, expecting to drop into the water with every step. But he never does. Finally, he stands a few feet from the girl. He squats down so they’re at eye level. Even if she isn’t human, she is still a child and he doesn’t want to frighten her. “I’m Frank.”

“I know,” she says. And something in the way she says it makes all of his instincts come alive.

He looks at her—really looks at her. She has all of the features of a child, but something in the way she stands, the way she looks at him, makes him think otherwise.

“Am I dead?” he asks, because he might as well.

The girl considers him. “Do you want to be?”

He thinks about it. A little over a year ago, his answer would have been simple. He can still taste his blood in his mouth, feel his wrists bound to a chair as he gazed into the eyes of the man he thought he could trust above all others. He remembers telling Billy that death was something he yearned for, if not something he actively sought.

But now—

“No,” he says. Then he hesitates. “Where are we?”

“That,” says the girl, “isn’t an easy question to answer.”

He blinks. “What? I mean—where is this?”

She shrugs. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”

Frank bites back a curse. Even if this child is probably not a normal girl, he still doesn’t want to swear in front of her. He hates riddles, has always hated them. “Who are you?”

With his luck, the kid’ll probably say she’s God or something and all of his non-belief will come to bite him in the ass.

The girl takes a few moments to answer. “I am,” she says slowly, “a wish.”

“Whose wish?”

She smiles but it looks sad. “He would call himself my father. You would call him a monster, I suspect. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle.”

He rears back. “Thanos.”

“Yes,” she says. “You have more knowledge of the world than others I’ve spoken to. Most are… erratic. Confused. You seem rather calm about all of this.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve died,” he says. Because he is dead—he’s certain of that now. All of the aches in his back, the old bone breaks in his arm, in his fingers—it’s all gone. He feels… lighter. Renewed.

Only way that could happen is if he’s dead.

“How did you know my name?” he asks. “You’re not omnipotent, are you?”

The girl laughs. It sounds crystal clear and so very childlike that it makes him want to smile. “Oh, no. But there was someone asking about you not too long ago.” She touches her hair, winds a finger through it around and around. “She was very insistent.”

His heart lurches. “Karen,” he says softly.

“That’s what she called herself, yes.”

Frank looks about them at orange and crimson water and light at the edges of the horizon. He half-expects to see Karen, but they remain alone on the water. “Is she all right?”

“She is as healthy as you are.”

That isn’t as reassuring as it was probably meant to be. “Is she here? Can I see her?” says Frank, as calmly as he can manage. His patience is wearing thin and he can feel his index finger moving, tapping against his thigh. He needs to see her. His last memories of her are too fresh, too searing. He can still taste the ash on the air and hear her last words, spoken so fast they were nearly unintelligible.

_I love you. I love you. Frank, I—_

He failed her. He failed all of them. He thinks of David and the kids, of Sarah, of his own family—he couldn’t save any of them, in the end. 

“No,” says the girl.

Frank’s jaw goes a little tight; he has to force himself not to snap at the girl.

“Why not?” Frank asks. He cannot quite keep the anger from his voice. 

“Because I am not _your_ wish,” says the girl, with a little wave of her hand. “She did ask me to pass along a message, if I saw you.”

Karen. Only she would find a way to contact him in this purgatory—or whatever this is. 

“What did she say?” he asks.  

"‘ _I love you_ ,’” says the girl. “‘ _Find me and we’ll figure this out together_.’”

 _Fuck._ That even sounds like her. He can hear it in her voice—the way she would put a little command into her words, and he might smile and say, _Yes, ma’am_. They may have lost everything, may have died, but she is still fighting for him. 

He can’t do any less. 

The universe will have to tear itself into pieces before he gives her up. He looks around them, at this strange place that seems not a place at all. He doesn’t know where to start. Might as well ask.

“Can I find her?” he says.

“That’s not up to me,” says the girl simply.

He has to turn away for a few heartbeats. He gazes about this strange world—so empty and echoing, the air cloyingly thick. The water beneath his boots is still strangely solid. The place is too open, too exposed. He yearns for the cover of trees or buildings, for anything other than this wide open space and this strange little girl.

“What about anyone else?” he asks quietly. “People who died before. Can—can I see them?” Even saying the words feels like opening himself up for more pain.

The girl tilts her head. She appears benignly curious.

“Tell me,” she says. “The girl whose name you called me. Who was she to you?”

His throat tightens. “My daughter.”

She nods. “And do you love her?”

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” he snaps, before he can stop himself.

The girl simply looks at him. She doesn’t appear frightened or offended by his anger. “One not every father knows the answer to.”

He thinks of Lisa—and of the clean, sweet baby smell when they first brought her home from the hospital, the way her hair shone in the light beneath her bedroom window, of the scattering of toys she would shove beneath her bed when Maria asked her to tidy up, and the way she used to hug him—like she was sure everything would be fine so long as he was there.

“More than anything,” he says hoarsely.

“You came here expecting to see her.” The girl tilts her head. “She is dead?”

He has to swallow a few times before he can answer. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” the girl says. “For your loss. And no, you cannot see her.”

He blinks back tears. Fuck, it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. “W-why not? We’re both—I mean, we’re dead. Is this punishment? I’m never going to be able to see her, see any of them, because I’m… because of what I did?”

It makes sense, in a sick sort of way. He took so many lives, did so many things. Of course there will be no happy ending for him. He remembers the book of Greek myths that Curt gave him so long ago. He remembers the underworld, full of fruitless tasks and unsolvable puzzles and fittingly devised torments—and he has to admit, there is some poetic justice in a man who killed to avenge his family never being allowed to see them again.

“You,” says the girl, “are not dead. Not exactly.”

He wants to laugh; the bitter taste of it hovers at the back of his tongue. “Then what do you call this,” he says, gesturing at the wide expanse of red water. It’s nothingness, an empty void that seems strangely lighter at the edges.

“You are not dead,” the girl says again. “You were… displaced.”

“Displaced?”

“Moved,” she says vaguely. “You were tucked away, like a child might hide a spare coin. You were taken here for safe keeping. I don’t think he realized, when he took the stone. Soul cannot destroy—that is not its purpose.”

Frank feels his jaw clench. He hates all of this—the half-riddles and half-truths. He hates the sensation of ignorance, of being kept in the dark. He cannot fight what he does not know, and perhaps that is the most galling thing about this whole situation. It is the acknowledgement that he couldn’t have stopped any of this, no matter how hard he tried. Part of him wants to simply end this conversation, to stop talking with this infuriating girl who is clearly not just a girl. 

But he has spent far too long around Karen. And if she were here, she would be asking the questions. Seeking the truth. She is not here, so he must do it for her.

“Kept safe for what?” he asks. 

The girl smiles again—and it is not a child’s smile. It is full and curving and dangerous. She moves toward him, and as she does so, the girl becomes something else. Her form blurs and shifts. She grows taller, leaner, her features sharpening into a wicked beauty. She wears black; there are blades at her thighs and wrists.

A woman stands before him, hair red as pomegranate seeds.

And too late, Frank remembers that the most dangerous person in the underworld was its queen.

“Until,” she says, “another wish could be made.”

A chill goes through him. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but nothing emerges. 

“I’ll let you sleep with the others,” says the woman. “It’s the only mercy I can give you.” 

A ripple goes through the water. Frank looks down at the depthless sea beneath him. And that’s when he sees them. All of them.

There are people are beneath the surface—floating there, still and silent. There must be hundreds, thousands—his gaze darts from person to person. He sees a flash of blonde hair. 

And then he falls—crashes through the surface of the water before he can take a breath. He thrashes against the sudden pull of gravity, his limbs heavy and his clothes soaked through. A current seizes hold of him, tugging at his hair and clothes and boots. 

He does not swim upward; no, that is not his goal. He cuts through the water, using all of the strength in his legs and arms. He pushes his way past floating forms, past people he does not recognize or care to truly see. There is a glimmer of gold—a glitter of brightness, and he follows that. His lungs burn hot and pain flares in his chest. He does not inhale, no matter how badly his body yearns to. He knows how to swim in a storm, how to save someone who is drowning, how to fight in the water. He will not let this end here. 

He pushes past a man in a dark overcoat and then he sees her. Blonde hair floating in the crimson water, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. 

 _Find me_ , was her last command to him. 

So he does. 

Frank reaches for Karen, one hand on her shoulder and the other cupping the back of her head. She looks like she did when she slept beside him: peaceful and still. He wishes he could tell her that he made it, that he managed to follow her into this place. Even death could not keep him from her. 

His lungs give out in that moment; he gasps and chokes on the water. It surges into his nose, his mouth. He knows how it feels to drown—he trained for this—but it doesn’t matter. His heartbeat surges, his body struggling to inhale, but then again, he’s _dead_ , so why should he need to breathe—

The water slides down his throat, and he feels the world begin to dim. His sight fogs at the edges. 

Still, he holds on. He feels the brush of Karen’s hair against his cheek, tastes the sharp tang of the water, hears his own heartbeat throb in his skull. 

 _Sleep_ , says a voice. It is not the woman’s voice—it belongs to the child. 

He fights the darkness. The weight of it presses down on him. 

 _Sleep_ , comes that voice again. 

He remembers whispering that to Lisa, his cheek pressed to the crown of her hair.  _One batch, two batch—_

Then there is Maria kissing the bridge of his nose.  _Morning, sleepyhead._  

Karen’s fingers against his temple, stroking one of his scars, a book in her other hand.  _Be cunning and full of tricks—_

_Be cunning and—_

_Be cunning—_

_Be—_

And then there is nothing at all.  

 

* * *

 

The universe unspools itself—

galactic filaments unravel,

voids collapse inward,

stars burn out all at once.

 

 

An eternity hangs in perfect balance, perfect silence, then someone—

Someone reaches out,

metal fingers, colors gleaming at the knuckles,

take hold of the broken edges.

—pulls the threads taut.

 

 

And time flies backward. 

 

* * *

 

An alarm jerks Frank Castle from a dead sleep.

He wakes on a Wednesday to the sound of his phone blaring at him. He scrubs his fingers across his eyes, jaw cracking wide with a yawn, and sits up. His apartment is small but clean, and for once, there aren’t bullet holes in the walls. Those walls are thin; he can often had the sounds of his neighbors tromping up the stairs or the thrum of car engines outside. It is all background noise to him, something he’s learned to tune out. But this morning, it seems louder than usual. 

He feels hungover. Dry-mouthed and gritty, eyes aching. But he wasn’t drinking last night, so why…?

He swings his legs over the side of his bed and walks, barefoot, into the small kitchen. Kitchen is perhaps too strong a word. It’s a tiny alcove with a sink, a mini-fridge, and a coffee maker. The coffee is all that really matters; he flicks the machine to life.

His dreams have always been straightforward: he wakes to blood and gunfire, to his own shouts, and more recently, to the taste of burnt meat and smoke and the sight of explosives strapped to people he loves. But when he tries to recall his dreams of the night before, all he can summon is deep water. A weight on his chest, in his chest, and reds and golds splashed across the horizon. Maybe his brain is finally getting a little more creative in its torments. 

His phone beeps at him a second time, and he recognizes the distinct alarm. He has an alert every time the name ‘Karen Page’ appears in the newspaper.

_Karen._

Panic roars to life inside him. Adrenaline burns hot in his veins.

She’s hurt, she’s dying—fuck, he needs to get to her—

He is halfway through his apartment before sense returns to him. He’s dressed only in his boxers, his phone in hand.

 _Check the fucking article_ , he thinks, and he opens it so quickly that his phone nearly slips from his hand.

She’s fine—it’s an article written _by_ her, not _about_ her.

She’s fine.

It takes a few breaths for his heartbeat to even out.

He isn’t sure where that bolt of panic came from, but then again, his brain is screwed to hell. It would be just like his nightmares to linger after he wakes.

His thumb slides across the screen, over her name.

He needs to take a breath. To wake up, to deal with this nameless fear like a rational person.

The pleasant smell of fresh coffee wafts through the small apartment. Moving on autopilot, he pours two cups, then puts both on the table. He turns one mug so that the handle faces the other chair.

Then he goes still. Realizes what he just did.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He picks up his cup. The beans are a cheap brand, but he downs it in a few gulps. Then he drinks the second cup. It tastes far better than it has any right to.

When he’s on his third cup, he reads Karen’s article in full. This time, it’s about corrupt TSA officials helping human traffickers. He shakes his head, half-proud and half-worried. She’s going to get herself into trouble one of these days. The article is well written. It’ll probably win some kind of award. He imagines Karen sitting behind a desk, smiling at her laptop, fingers clicking against the keys. Making the world a better place, all with a few well-applied truths. It’s a cleaner method than his own.

He wants to talk to her. More than he can remember wanting anything in the last few months.

He shouldn’t contact her; she has her own life and she seems to be doing well. He should leave her be. He should—

 _Find me and we’ll figure this out together._ He isn’t sure where that thought comes from. It sounds like her voice, like something she might have said. But he would have remembered her saying it. 

His fingers seem to move of their own accord: he opens his texts and types in a memorized number.

He just wants to make sure she’s all right. He just wants to know she is safe, and then perhaps that lingering nightmare will release its hold on him. 

He types, _Nice detective work, ma’am_ and hits ‘send’ before he can think better of it.

The moment he sends the text, his stomach sinks. It’s a foolish thing to do; he should let her be. But there’s some part of him that hurts at the sight of her name, like a bone-deep bruise that he wants to prod at.

It takes less than a minute for her to reply. _Frank, is that you?_

He can almost picture her narrowed eyes, the way she would tilt her head in question.

_Put me in your contacts as Pete, please._

There’s a few moments when he watches her type a reply, the dot-dot-dot blinking on his screen.

 _Are you okay?_ She types.

 _Yeah, I’m fine._ It hurts a little that she only thinks he would text her when he needs something—but then again, he’s probably earned that. It’s not like he calls her up for regular chats.

 _Good._ Three dots blink in place for a few moments, then she adds, _Can I see you?_

The question throws him off balance. It is exactly what he wants but can’t bring himself to ask.

He shouldn’t see her.

He shouldn’t. He wants to, but he shouldn’t.

She deserves a normal life, the kind he could never give her. She should find someone with a nine to five job, who could take her out to dinners in public and not worry about security cameras or crosshairs. She deserves the kind of man who doesn’t know what what gun smoke tastes like or how it feels to spit blood in death’s face.

She would eat that man alive, part of him thinks wryly.

He scrubs at his jaw; he needs a shave. Particularly if he’s going to see her.

Because he is going to see her—he has made the decision without consciously making it. His fingers move of their own volition.

_There’s a coffee place on 46th and 10th. Meet you there at eleven?_

_Sounds good. How can I reach you if something changes?_

_This number._

_So you’re keeping this phone?_

_Yes,_ he types back. _Burners are a pain to replace._

When she doesn’t reply, he sets the phone on his table and gazes at it for a few moments. He feels he’s stumbling into something unknown. Like everything has shifted and he can’t quite understand why or how.

He goes to the window and leans against the glass. His apartment overlooks a parking lot and a laundromat and for a moment, he has to blink because he half-expects to see forest. To smell oak trees and damp earth.

He’s losing his goddamn mind.

So he shakes his head and makes another cup of coffee before heading to work.

It’s going to be a long morning.

* * *

Karen Page wakes on a Wednesday and the first thing she murmurs is, “Did you let the cat out?”

Except she doesn’t _own_ a cat.

And she’s alone in her bed.

She sits up, pushes her covers back and rubs at her eyes. She feels strangely heavy and exhausted, despite the full night’s sleep. She glances to her side, half-expecting to see someone sleeping beside her. But the space is empty. She’s had that dream before. Most of the time, it’s amorphous fantasies about faceless partners—but this time, the mental image is clearer. Sharp jaw, hidden beneath a soft beard. Dark eyes. A sleep-roughened voice saying, _Go back to sleep, sweetheart._

It’s like the ghost of a memory.

She lays in bed for a few moments, trying to recall the exact details of the dream. But the more she tries, the more they slip away. She was… happy. That’s all she can remember.

And for a moment, she feels a pang of grief so strongly that tears well up. She scrubs them away. It’s stupid to mourn a dream, and she’s glad no one is around to see her do it.

She forces herself to get up. Every movement feels off-kilter and wrong, like she woke up with her bones rearranged.

She moves through her apartment with all of the coordination of a zombie. She shuffles from room to room, not quite sure what she’s doing or why she is doing it. Coffee, first. Then a robe to pull on over her pajamas. She bumps into the counter—something she hasn’t done since she first moved in. When she washes her hands, the water feels too hot. Her skin has a strangely raw quality to it, as if her every nerve has been exposed to the open air. Maybe she is getting sick; that might explain her strange dreams and mood.

She takes a sip of her coffee and blinks at the mug. It tastes better than she can ever remember. She glances at the label. Maybe someone broke into her apartment and left her really good stuff—but no, it’s the same old brand of French roast she’s been using for a while.

God. She is out of it.

On impulse, she texts Ellison. _Do you mind if I work from home today?_ The thought of going into the office with all of its noise and bustle is overwhelming.

He answers at once. _Three other people have asked me that. Is there a concert in town I don’t know about? Baseball game? Book signing? Is Haruki Murakami touring or something?_

_I just feel weird. If I’m getting sick, I’d rather not infect everyone else._

_Good thinking_. Then, a few moments later, he adds, _If it is Haruki Murakami, you better bring me an autograph and an interview._

She laughs a little.

She ends up checking her email at the kitchen table, drinking a second cup of coffee. She texts Foggy just to check in; she doesn’t quite know why. He replies a few moments after, saying he’s in a meeting but he’ll call later. She smiles, a small bit of tension releasing from her neck; she didn’t even realize she was nervous. She shakes her head, goes back to working on her laptop, when her phone buzzes again. She picks up, expecting Foggy, and sees an unknown number.

_Nice detective work, ma’am._

Her heartbeat picks up. It’s a simple sentence, but she knows. She _knows._

It’s him. It has to be. He’s the only one who’s ever called her that. But then why would he be texting her…?

The article. She remembers her article on the TSA came out today. He must have seen it.

Her fingers fly across the keys. _Frank, is that you?_

_Put me in your contacts as Pete, please._

She presses her palm to her mouth. A tidal wave of emotion rises up, threatens to drown her. She isn’t even sure where it comes from—this aching sense of loss is the kind she would associate with homesickness.

 _Are you okay?_ She has terrible mental images of him bleeding to death in an alley, texting her as a last farewell. He would do that.

His answer comes a few moments after. _Yeah, I’m fine._

A breath shudders out of her. He’s okay. He’s okay. That should be enough for her—after all, it’s not like he owes her anything.

But the absence of him feels like a hollowness in her chest. She needs to see him, she tells herself, to make sure he’s fine. She’ll feel better if she can just lay eyes on him.

_Good. Can I see you?_

Her phone goes silent. Her heart is beating a little too quickly, and her fingers are clammy against the screen. Shit. Shit—she shouldn’t have even asked. It feels like making herself too vulnerable, like she might slip up and reveal the depth of her feelings. And she does have feelings. She has for a while now—she’s pushed them aside, tried to ignore them for his sake. She doesn’t want to put that on him, not if he doesn’t feel the same. She doesn’t ever want to hurt him; she has seen him hurt too many times.

Then her phone flashes with his answer.

_There’s a coffee place on the 46th and 10th. Meet you there at eleven?_

Relief sweeps through her. _Sounds good. How can I reach you if something changes?_

She half expects a cryptic reply about roses in her window.

_This number._

She frowns in surprise. _So you’re keeping this phone?_

_Yes. Burners are a pain to replace._

It’s such a Frank thing to say that she can almost hear him say it. She smiles, presses the edge of the phone to her lips. He’s okay—and she’s going to see him. She should shower, curl her hair. Maybe that will make her feel more herself.

Nothing has changed, she thinks, as she strips out of her pajamas and steps beneath the hot water. It feels amazing against her bare back, and she scrubs herself clean. 

Nothing has changed.

But she can’t quite bring herself to believe it.

* * *

The city is busy for a Wednesday.

Frank leaves the construction site a little early for lunch, but the shift manager won’t mind. Frank is usually the first on there, and the last to leave. He’s earned a little leeway. As he walks, the sounds of the city seem to crowd in on him: the sharp blare of horns, the chatter of a tourists, the click of artificial nails against a cell phone. It is almost a relief to pull open the coffee shop’s doors and step inside. Frank has been here a few times; it’s one of those places that serves espresso out of tiny cups, but it’s too close to work for him to complain.

Frank orders two normal-sized cups of coffee before turning to glance about the coffee shop. He sees her at once.

Karen is sitting in a window seat. She looks good—blonde hair shining like fresh sunlight, a blue blouse, and her grey-manicured nails tucked into a book with rabbits on the cover. When she hears his footsteps, she looks up.

Her smile is bright and cuts right through him. “Hi, Frank.”

“Hey,” he says softly.

Just the sight of her makes his fingers twitch restlessly. He has the wild impulse to kiss the sun-warmed hollow of her cheek.

_She would taste like amber and heat and—_

He sets their cups down on the table, using the movement to collect himself.

“So,” she says. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “I saw your article. Good work.”

She looks down at her lap, seemingly embarrassed and a little pleased. “I kind of fell into journalism by accident, so I’m glad it’s working out so far.”

He shakes his head. “Not by accident. You’ve been digging into the truth for a while,” he says. “You should get paid for it.”

She drinks a bit of her coffee. “So what are you doing these days? Keeping, uh, busy?” 

“Yeah, I’ve been working.” He leans back in his chair, one hand cupped around his coffee. “Construction.”

“Really?” she says, surprised.

“What’d you think I was doing?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. For all I knew, you’d left the city and fled to Canada. Become a lumberjack or something.”

“Don’t have the flannel for that,” he says gravely, and she laughs.

He likes that—being able to make her laugh. Her mirth fades a little, and when she looks at him, there’s a warmth he does not expect.

She says, “I—I’m glad you texted. After the morning I had, it was a nice surprise.” There’s something in the way she says it that sets off alarm bells in his head. His gaze sweeps across the coffee shop, then to the street. They’re sitting beside a window, which he wouldn’t have chosen—but then again, she picked the table. If she’s in trouble—

“Hey, hey,” she says, and then her hand is on his. He didn’t even realize his fingers were clenching into a fist until she touches him. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Frank exhales. “Sorry. Old habits.”

She smiles tightly, more an acknowledgement than true pleasure. Her hand is still on his—and then she pulls back, looking startled. As if she didn’t even realize she grabbed for him.

It surprises him how much he doesn’t want her to let go.

“So why was this morning shitty?” he asks.

Karen takes a sip of her coffee. As if stalling for time. “Just… dreams, you know?”

Nightmares are something he is intimately familiar with. It doesn’t surprise him that she would have them—she’s seen more shit in the last year than most people do in a lifetime. “Bad ones?”

She shrugs. “Thought I had a cat,” she says. “Woke up thinking I need to let him out.”

It’s so mundane that can feel his eyebrows crawling toward his hairline. “A cat? Really?”

“I’m not even a cat person.” Her fingers twist on the coffee cup, fidgeting with the cardboard holder. “I don’t remember the details, but I just remember feeling… good. When I woke up—I was yanked out of it. Felt like I lost something.” She glances away, eyes a little unfocused. “Sorry. Now that I say it out loud, it sounds stupid.”

“No,” he says softly, “it doesn’t.” The worst of his dreams are the good ones—the might-have-beens, the could-have-beens. The memories that slide just out of reach. She looks so unhappy that he offers up a truth of his own. “Didn’t have the greatest morning myself. Woke up feeling hungover, which would make sense if I’d actually been drinking last night. Ended up guzzling five cups of coffee before ten.”

“So you’re behind schedule, then.”

That startles him into a laugh. A real laugh, one that comes with a bit of a snort. He forgot how genuinely funny she is, how much he enjoys the rare moments they’ve spent together when they aren’t dodging bullets.

He looks down at her book. “Getting in a bit of reading?”

“It belonged to my mom,” she says. “She read it to me and my brother when we were pretty young. I don’t know—I kind of woke up this morning wanting to read it again.”

“A book about rabbits?”

“More like new beginnings,” she answers. “People trying to find their way after their old lives fall apart. An epic journey. And yeah, rabbits.”

“Sounds like I should read it. Might be a nice break from the _Handmaid’s Tale_.”

“You’re reading Atwood?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” he says.

“It’s just—not what I pictured you reading.”

That she has pictured him reading anything is a little revelation. “And what did you imagine me reading?”

“Guns & Ammo, mostly,” she says. “Maybe Lee Child.”

He laughs again. “I have a friend who keeps recommending the classics. He’s a smarter guy than me, so I thought I’d take his advice.” He hesitates, then adds, “And Jack Reacher got repetitive.”

She is the one to laugh this time, and she is more beautiful than ever. It’s not just the lines of her hair or face—it’s the way she’s looking at him. Like he’s all she wants to look at. It sends a hot flush through him.

“What?” he says.

“Sorry… it’s just good to see you,” she says. “You look like you’re doing well.”

He hears the emotional undercurrent in her voice, even if she makes an attempt to quash it. And he understands it—because it’s good to see her, too. He wants to reach across the table, push those stray stands of hair behind her ear. The yearning to touch is stronger than ever, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. It feels wrong to have the table between them. His hands clench in his lap.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks. “Take a walk? I have an hour before I need to get back to work.”

She agrees. Her worn paperback is slipped into her handbag, and he tosses their empty cups into the trash. He holds the door for her and she tells him about her new piece at work. The conversation flows naturally; Karen talks a little bout her work, and Frank finds himself laughing when she describes how the interns keep accidentally bringing her boss decaf. They both steer clear of any sensitive topics; she asks about what books he has been reading, which leads into a conversation about Curtis and his never-ending collection of classical literature. 

It feels natural to walk beside her. Her strides almost match his; they fall into step with ease. 

It’s the most normal Frank has felt in months. 

“You think you’ll stay in the city?” she asks. “Now that things have calmed down?”

He nods. “Can’t imagine going someplace else.”

“But people are still looking for you, right?” She glances upward, as if searching for traffic cams. Her mouth is set in a determined line, and she looks as though she’d throw herself between Frank and any cameras. Frank has his coat’s hood pulled a little over his face, but he isn’t overly worried. 

“Homeland gave me a pretty good new identity,” he replies. “They deleted my prints from law enforcement records, replaced them with some dead guy’s. As far as they’re concerned, Pete Castiglione isn’t a threat."

“They’re probably still watching you, though."

“Oh, I’m sure they are,” Frank says. “But so long as I keep my head down, don’t talk about their screw-ups, I think they’ll leave me be. If only to keep their own asses out of the fire. I start talking, everyone looks bad."

“You ever need me to publish an article on them,” says Karen, “just say the word."

“Pretty sure the CIA wouldn’t approve of that."

“Pretty sure I don’t give a damn.” 

He lets out a breath. She would take on the CIA, if he asked her to. He isn’t sure how he managed to earn the loyalty of Karen Page, but he has it. He knows he has it. He hopes she knows that she has his, too.  

He says, "I’ll lay low for a while. Maybe grow a beard again, put up with everyone calling me a hipster.”

“I liked the beard,” Karen says. 

“Yeah?” 

He walks her home; when they come to her apartment building, the conversation falls away. Her fingers rest lightly on the door, and she is a heartbeat away from vanishing inside.

“Thanks for this,” she says. “The coffee, the talk. It’s—I’m glad you’re doing all right, Frank.”

There is a moment of awkwardness; neither knows quite how to say goodbye. 

A flash of uncertainty crosses her expression, then she steps forward and hugs him. She touches him as if she half-expects him to step back, to cringe out of her grasp.

He doesn’t. 

His arms go around her on instinct. She is soft against him, and she smells like amber and soap, and having her in his arms feels like—it feels like the cessation of a pain so long-felt that he forgot it was there. It feels _right_ , the world finally settling into place after his strange morning and half-remembered dreams. He wants her closer, wants to feel the rise and fall of her chest when she breathes, her heartbeat beneath his fingertips.

He is holding on too tightly; this isn’t how a person hugs a friend. But he can’t quite loosen his arms and her fingernails are digging into his shoulders. She clings to him. She inhales, and it sounds a little like a gasp.  

Whatever this is, she feels it, too.

Their mouths are a whisper apart. All it would take is a slight tilt of his head and—

He pulls back.

All that’s ever been between them are adrenaline-soaked moments, gasps that taste like smoke, a few touches of trembling hands, and gazes held too long. There’s an understanding, an acknowledgement. But he’s never let it deepen into anything more.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

She looks at him. Her face is oddly vulnerable, as if their embrace shattered her own defenses. It makes him want to see what she looks like when all of her walls are down, when she is relaxed and comfortable.

He wants her to have that.

He wants it for himself.

And he is afraid to want anything, because it can be so easily taken away.

It scares him—because he knows what she is. What she could be. It’s one thing to run into danger for her, to throw himself between her and anything that might harm her. It’s another to walk toward her slowly, to accept every measure step. To get close, knowing how it could end. 

Perhaps a few months ago, he would have let her go into that apartment building. Nodded one last farewell and vanished into the crowds of New York. Let the city swallow him up, reveled in his solitude because that’s his armor. But something has cracked that armor, and he can’t quite seem to put it back together. 

He isn’t sure he wants to. 

He takes a breath. “Listen. There’s—there’s this restaurant I’ve been meaning to get to. Little hole in the wall place that does Italian food. Haven’t managed to go there in months, been busy and all. And I mean—if you’d be interested… maybe one night—”

_Smooth, Castle._

“Frank, are you asking me to dinner?” And the way she says it, he knows she understands. This isn’t just a meaningless invitation. Nothing is meaningless with her—every glance, every word, every action has weight.

“Yeah. Suppose I am.” He shoves his hands in his coat pockets, so she can’t see his unsteadiness. His fingers ache to reach for her again.

A flicker of emotions cross her face—surprise, then something like hope, and the smallest flash of uncertainty. He would understand if she refused; any kind of relationship between them, be it friendship or something more, will not be safe. It could be good—no, he _knows_ it would be good and strong and built on honesty—but it will never, ever be safe.

Then her moment of fear vanishes, and her shoulders straighten out.

Brave. Always so goddamn brave.

“Okay,” she says. “I—I could do Friday.”

He nods. “Pick you up here at six?” That will give him enough time to shower after work and grab a bouquet of roses. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it properly. She deserves that much.

She smiles. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You will.”

 

* * *

 

All of the poets were wrong.

This is the way the world ends—it doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an explanation—I’m assuming that whatever happens in Endgame will contain an element of time travel (and the soul stone, obviously), hence the reset-style ending. But I believe that Karen and Frank would unconsciously remember their time together, hence them finally making tentative steps towards a relationship. (I’ve got until April until my theories are either confirmed or tossed out, so we’ll see.) 
> 
> There’ll be an epilogue after this. And I may do a few short pieces in this universe, depending on prompts/inspiration/phase of the moon. 
> 
> I just want to give a quick shout-out to everyone who’s commented, kudosed, sent me a message, made an edit or otherwise encouraged me. This was the fic I never really intended to write, but I’m so glad I did. All of you came on this post-apocalyptic road trip with me, and I couldn’t have asked for better companions. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Thank you so much, friends.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Epilogue**

_Five Months Later_

It’s a cold day in late February when Karen’s cell rings.

She is walking home from work, wearing sensible boots with her pumps stashed in her purse. The winter has been a frigid one, snow settling sullenly into flower beds and street edges. The air smells of car fumes and fresh snow, and she suspects there will be a storm tonight. She has a heavy wool coat and hat and gloves—which makes it a little hard to maneuver her phone out of her purse. A glance at the screen has her smiling.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey.” Frank’s voice is soft in her ear. “You home yet?”

“Just got off work,” she says, then a jolt goes through her. “Are you back?”

“Could be.” There’s a low heat in his voice, all smoke and warmth and her step quickens.

He and his friend Curtis visited Kentucky to pay respects to a friend who passed not too long ago. He took two weeks off work, and he’s been out of cell range. Apparently this friend used to live pretty far off the grid. It isn’t the longest she’s gone without seeing him since they reunited, but these two weeks have dragged. Foggy’s taking a vacation with Marci and even the criminals seem to be staying indoors; she’s been helping Ellison reorganize the archives, which is simultaneously boring and strangely satisfying.

“I’m not home yet,” says Frank. “Dropped Curt off at his place, then I thought I’d grab dinner for us. Anything sound good?”

“I don’t care as long as its warm.”

He chuckles. “Got it. See you in twenty.”

She still can’t quite believe they’re living together. It hasn’t even been six months yet—he came home with her after their fourth date and never really left. When it first happened, she was surprised by how normal it felt to have him there, sharing cooking duties and browsing her book collection and sleeping beside her. It felt right, like he always belonged there.

Sure, it hasn’t all been easy. They’re both strong-willed and Karen isn’t used to sharing her space with another. They’ve had a few fights—and some extraordinary make-up sex. She has learned that Frank is a good cook but a terrible baker; she has started braiding her hair before bed so he won’t wake with a mouthful of blonde strands. They’ve each adjusted their habits a little. But she can’t deny that she’s happier than she can ever remember—and it’s due in no small part to Frank. 

She arrives at the apartment at the same time he does. He borrowed a friend’s truck for the trip as her car doesn’t fare too well on icy roads. She grins as he pulls into the lot behind the building. He steps out of the truck, a bag of takeout dangling from one hand and a backpack around one shoulder. “Hey, stranger,” she says, lifting the takeout from his hand. “Need some help?”

“Depends,” he says. “What’s it going to cost?”

“How about this?” she says, and kisses him. His beard is soft, a little damp with snowfall, and his mouth is hungry against hers. She finds herself pressed up against the side of the truck, takeout utterly forgotten. One of his large hands cups her cheek, thumb moving in slow circles. It would be embarrassing how fast she can feel heat building between them, but she doesn’t really care. His belt buckle presses up against her stomach, and she inhales sharply.

He pulls back first. “Hold that thought,” he says. “I’d rather your neighbors didn’t call the cops on us.”

She laughs. “Don’t tell me the Punisher’s afraid of being charged with public indecency.”

“Hey, Pete Castiglione still has a clean record,” he replies. “I’m sure Homeland would prefer it stays that way.” Even so, he kisses the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then her temple. It’s terribly sweet. She closes her eyes, leans into him.

“How was Kentucky?” she murmurs.

“Gunner lived in the middle of nowhere, so we ended up staying in this little bed and breakfast in the next town over.” He reaches down, picks up the takeout bag. “It was good to go there, though. Visited the place where he was buried, made sure his cabin was taken care of—felt like I finally laid things to rest. Curt ended up chatting up this local doctor, don’t remember her name. Some redhead. Think they exchanged emails.”

“Good,” she says. “I—”

There is a tarp covering the bed of the truck. Karen might never have noticed—but then it _twitches_.

Like something is beneath it.

“What the hell?” she says, taking a step back.

There is something _alive_ under that tarp. And it says something about their lives that Frank’s first reaction is to sweep out an arm, putting Karen behind him before a gun appears between his fingers. She doesn’t even know where he was keeping it. “Get down,” he says, voice deadly soft. She does as he asks—if only because she knows he won’t be able to deal with the threat so long as he has half his attention on her. She drops to her knees, angling herself so that she’s out of the immediate line of fire. She reaches into her purse, takes hold of her own gun.

He moves up to the side of the truck. Then he rips the tarp free, a snarl on his mouth, gun raised.

He goes still. Tilts his head. Then says, “What the fuck.”

Karen rises to her feet and peers into the back of the truck.

A cat.

There’s a cat staring up at them.

Karen feels a bit silly; she drops her gun back into her purse.

They gaze down at the animal.

“Did you kidnap a cat?” asks Karen.

Frank frowns in confusion. “I—no.”

“Are you going to tell it to put its paws in the air?”

Frank gives her a flat look, then slips his gun into his coat.

“Do you think it’s been there the entire drive back from Kentucky?” Karen comes a little closer. The cat doesn’t seem injured or frightened.

“It must have. We didn’t make any stops other than to get gas,” he says, which makes her heart clench a little. It’s not a short drive; he must have been eager to return home.

Karen reaches out a hand to the cat. Frank seizes her arm. “It could have rabies.”

“It doesn’t look diseased.”

The cat is round-cheeked and fluffy, with bright eyes. It steps forward, tail crooked to one side.

“It must have crawled into the back because it was cold,” says Karen, holding out her hand a second time. “Cats in Vermont did that all the time.” The cat sniffs her fingers, then rubs its cheek against her palm. “Aw. Look, he probably has an owner. He knows people. But no collar on him.”

“How do you know it’s a him?”

“I’m guessing.”

She slips out of her coat.

“What are you doing?” asks Frank.

“Well, he can’t stay out here,” replies Karen. “He’ll freeze. He can stay for he night, then we’ll figure out what to do in the morning. We should take him to a vet, see if he’s microchipped.” She holds the coat out like a net. If the cat struggles, hopefully he won’t be able to bite her.

“Karen,” says Frank. It’s how he says her name when he knows she’s about to do something foolish and cannot be deterred; she heard it when she insisted on meeting a source near the docks at two in the morning and when she wore heels the day after the streets froze over. His hand falls on her shoulder, but he doesn’t restrain her. He merely takes the coat from her hands.

She is about to argue—between the two of them, she can go to the ER without questions. But he—

He is already picking up the cat with the coat the way he would handle explosives. His whole body is tense, like he is bracing for a blow.

The cat doesn’t struggle; rather, he begins purring.

“Well, he’s clearly a threat,” says Karen, a touch dryly. She picks up the takeout and Frank’s backpack, while he continues holding the cat at arms length.

Together they walk inside the warm hallway. The cat continues purring in Frank’s arms—a rusty engine sort of purr. While she’s never really been a cat sort of person, Karen has to admit there’s something endearing about the creature. Karen’s apartment is on the third floor, and they take the stairs—a habit of Frank’s, and one that Karen has adopted. She unlocks the apartment and holds the door so Frank and the cat can go in first. He locks the cat in the bathroom, then Karen goes to her next door neighbor—a sweet old lady with two cats who is more than willing to lend her a bit of litter and food.

When she returns to the apartment, Frank is unpacking. The cat is throwing himself against the bathroom door, yowling in protest at his captivity.

“One night,” she promises, hurrying into the bathroom with the food. “Then we’ll take him to a shelter or something.”

She sets down food and uses an empty shoebox for litter. The cat begins happily crunching on the food, and Karen tucks a towel along the floor so he’ll have somewhere to curl up.

“Well,” she says, pulling the bathroom door shut behind her, “I never took you as the type to pick up hitchhikers.”

Frank snorts. He eases out of his coat and hangs it in the closet. He looks good, if a little tired. She suspects he made the drive on little sleep and a lot of coffee. “I think hiding in the back of the truck makes him a stowaway, not a hitchhiker.”

They eat a dinner of curry and Frank talks about his trip. He tells a few stories about the small town, and the woods where Gunner’s cabin resides. She can almost picture the oaken woods, the way he describes them. Can almost smell the wintry crisp and hear the crunch of dead leaves.

When they’re finished eating, Karen reaches over to pick up their bowls and take them to the sink but Frank leans in and kisses her neck. The touch burns through her like liquid heat and she closes her eyes, goes still. She lets him trail kisses up her neck, to her ear.

“If I didn’t know any better,” she says, “I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”

“If you’re not sure, then I’m doing a bad job,” he replies.

She turns into him, and then he is kissing her properly, and he tastes like curry and wine and Frank, and God, she has wanted him since she saw him in the parking lot. Her fingers slide beneath his shirt, finding the smooth skin of his back. She falls back onto the couch, pulling him with her. “Bed?” he murmurs.

“Later,” she says, smiling.

“Someone missed me.”

“I’m not the only one.” She can feel his erection pressed to her thigh, and she reaches between them, runs her fingers over the seam of his jeans. He exhales sharply, then he is kissing her again. She is so intent on unbuttoning his pants that she barely notices his hand until it steals beneath her blouse, pushes her bra aside and then his thumb glides across one hard nipple. She groans into his mouth; he knows she likes this—his weight above and around her, the slight roughness of his hands as a counterpoint to the softness of his mouth. He was always so careful with her at first, but now they’ve found a good middle ground.

Sex with Frank is _good._ Honestly, it’s better than she expected—she’s no stranger to the awkward, slightly sweet endeavor of getting to know a new partner. But somehow she and Frank seem to have skipped over that bit. Sex with Frank has ranged from unbearably gentle, lazy morning sex to one memorable time when he held her up against a wall, the muscles in his arms the only thing keeping her upright. This time, it feels warm and familiar, like song they both know the lyrics to: he kisses her until she feels almost drunk on the contact, and only when she is squirming up against him does his hand slip beneath her skirt. She’s slick already, but he still frames her clit with two fingers, sliding back and forth, his mouth moving against hers, until she is whimpering into the kiss. Their clothes are still half-on—but to get fully undressed would be to pull away from him and that’s the last thing she wants. She manages to pull his jeans down, her fingertips lightly tracing his cock. She can feel his heartbeat there, vital and so very alive—and she will never stop being grateful for this. For him, here. With her.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against her mouth.

“Yes, please,” she says, smiling.

He huffs a laugh, then says, “No, I mean—condoms. In the other room, right?” She normally keeps them in a bedside drawer, along with a few other personal items. He begins to sit up, and she pulls him back down.

“No need,” she says. “I was going to tell you earlier—but the cat kind of distracted me.”

“What?”

With her blouse still on, he can’t see her upper arm. So she slides off the garment and turns her left arm a little. There’s a deep green bruise and a healing incision on the inside of her upper arm. Frank’s expression darkens with concern. “What happened?”

“Frank, it’s fine,” she assures him. “I’m fine.”

“Karen,” he says, and she can hear the arousal draining out of his voice. She probably has about half a second before sex is off the table completely. This is his hard limit—she learned that after they were rear-ended two months ago. No sex while there’s a chance he could hurt her.

“It’s from my birth control implant,” she says. “The bruising is from the insertion. I had an appointment for the day after you left. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

It takes a few moments for him to understand. “Oh.” His thumb skims over the edge of the bruise. “It hurt?”

“Not really. They numbed me up beforehand.” She shrugs. “The implant is more effective than condoms. I mean, if you still wanted to use them—but we’re both clean and—”

He silences her with the lightest touch against her mouth. She can’t quite pinpoint his expression. “You sure?” he asks.

“Just don’t grab my arm and we’ll be fine,” she says.

“Not what I meant.”

“Frank.” She kisses the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I’m sure. All right?”

He exhales, and she sees the last of his tension vanish. He kisses her again, and she relaxes into it, lets her fingers stroke across his chest. Across scars and muscle. Then downward, nails lightly trailing over the taut planes of his stomach. His erection flagged a little during their conversation, and she curls her fingers around his cock and strokes. “Karen.”

He slides into her with one long thrust and then she’s gripping at the couch cushions, fingers scoring the fabric. He mouths at her shoulder, biting there so the marks won’t be as visible. The last time he marked up her neck, she had to wear scarves for two weeks—even with the heat blasting at the office.

She makes a sound that is most definitely _not_ a whimper, her hips rolling to meet his. “Frank,” she says, her hands skimming down his back. She feels the clench of his muscles as he moves within her. If someone had told her five months ago that she would be here, with him, she wouldn’t have believed them. Her eyes squeeze shut as she savors the closeness, the feel of him everywhere—his fingers on her thigh, his mouth moving from shoulder to neck, murmuring words in between soft kisses. She only catches a few of them; she is moaning openly now, unable to keep silent.

“Missed you,” he’s saying. “Missed this—all of this. Home and you and—fuck, Karen—”

She understands. Because she missed him, too—his steady presence and the way he makes coffee for both of them in the morning, and the way he glares at anyone who remarks on his hipster beard, how he’s hers, all hers, and she knows it. She’s his, too. They’re in this together, equal partners, and she’s never had this before. And she’ll fight to keep this, keep him.

She comes with a jerky shudder, the pleasure a sharp jolt up through her belly. He groans when he feels it, and she kisses him hard, needing to feel him. His steady thrusts quicken, and his fingers are tight on her hip. She feels him throb within her, and then he shudders against her, his movements slowing. For a few moments, they remain still. His mouth moves across her cheek, to her temple. She turns her head, feels his mouth against her hair. She fees like she ran a marathon, exhaustion settling into her bones.

He exhales hard, a shiver running through his whole body. He kisses her again, and she relaxes into it, her hand coming up to cradle the underside of his jaw.

He pulls out, and there’s a moment of contentment—followed by the sensation of slickness and—

She makes wild grab for the nearest fallen garment. She seizes his shirt, wads it up and presses it between her legs. “Okay, downside of not using condoms. We’re in danger of staining the couch. I hope you didn’t like this shirt.”

He laughs. “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

They leave the dishes in the sink; she’ll wash them tomorrow. She pulls on a loose shirt—one of his—and slips into bed. Frank follows a moment later, after his nightly routine of checking all the windows and door. His arm slides around her, reeling her in, and she lets out a contented breath.

“I love you,” she says. It’s not the first time she’s said it—no, that was months earlier. But she isn’t sure she’ll ever get used to saying it aloud, to knowing that it’s reciprocated.

“You, too,” he murmurs into her hair. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

She does.

* * *

The next morning, Frank slips out of bed. Karen is still asleep, and he takes a moment to admire the lines of her bare legs. He has to resist the urge to bend down and kiss her awake. She sleeps little enough as it is—he shouldn’t disturb her. So he pulls the blankets a little more tightly around her, then walks into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

He’s happy here, with her. And perhaps that is why he held himself back for so long. There is still that part of him that whispers he doesn’t deserve this, that he should still be torn up and bleeding, waking from nightmares at three in the morning.

All right, so he still has nightmares. But not every night.

The picture of his family rests on a bookshelf in the living room. It’s in a simple glass frame, and he sees it every time he goes to put something on that shelf. The sight makes something go tight in his belly—he will never not miss them, no matter how happy he is here. But the grief has become a quiet background noise, fading from the forefront of his mind. Perhaps it is because he knows their killers are beneath the ground. Or because he has something else to live for now. Perhaps a combination of both.

When Frank walks into the kitchen, he finds it already occupied.

The stray cat stands there.

Frank frowns. “Weren’t you locked in the bathroom?” he says.

The cat has something in its mouth. It steps closer, then delicately lays a dead mouse at Frank’s bare feet. The cat looks up at him, as if expecting praise.

Frank grimaces. He uses a paper towel to pick up the dead mouse and tosses it into the garbage.

The cat turns and walks toward the windows. Early morning light is beginning to spill across the carpet. The cat stretches, then leaps onto the windowsill—right onto one of Karen’s books. “Do not sit on that,” says Frank. He reaches under the cat, prying the book free.

It’s Karen’s copy of _Watership Down._

“Ruin this and Karen might just murder you,” Frank says. The cat looks at him, head tilted.

And since when is Frank Castle the kind of man who talks to cats? He shakes his head, sets the book safety on the coffee table, and picks up his mug.

He sits on the couch, cracking open a newspaper, when the cat leaps onto his lap. Frank goes still—half out of surprise and half out of self-preservation. Those sharp claws gently press against his thigh as the cat turns in a circle, then settles across his lap and begins to purr.

Frank considers moving it. But the cat is warm and… it’s not terrible.

When Karen gets up, wrapped in a bathrobe, she sees him. He knows how this must look: Frank Castle, sitting on her couch, with a cat settled in his lap. Her eyebrows flick upward.

“We’re keeping him, aren’t we?” asks Karen.

Frank shrugs. “It’s your apartment.”

“It’s our apartment. You pay half the rent, too.” She picks up the cup of coffee he left for her, holding it between both palms. She sits beside him on the couch, tucking herself into the hollow of his shoulder. He wraps an arm around her. She strokes the cat’s back and he purrs louder.

“Might be nice, having a pet,” says Karen, too casually. And Frank knows they’re both goners.

Ah well. They’re both probably too busy for a dog—at least for the moment.

“He already killed a mouse,” says Frank, and Karen sits up straight.

“You mean the one that’s been getting into my cupboards?” she says, a glint in her eye. “The one that ate my girl scout cookies last week?”

“It wasn’t wearing a name tag, so no idea.”

“Well, either way,” says Karen. “Good cat.” She rubs the cat behind the ears.

It’s a quiet morning—both of them drinking coffee while fresh snow falls softly outside. Karen is warm against him, her hand resting lightly on his thigh. If it isn’t perfect, it’s pretty damn close. Everything is quiet and still and safe. Frank isn’t sure what he did to deserve any of this but he knows he’ll fight to the death to keep it. 

Karen picks up _Watership Down_. Her thumb runs along the book’s spine. “Hey, what do you think of the name Campion?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end. 
> 
> I know I’ve said this before, but this is the fic I didn’t intended to write. It started out as a flash of an idea: _What happened to Karen and Frank after the snap?_ And somehow it grew into a sprawling, novel-length fic. I never would’ve managed it without the support and kind words of my readers—I adore you all. Thank you so much for making this into one of the best writing experiences of my life. 
> 
> Sending you all the hugs.


End file.
